Stay Away
by ThePreciousHeart
Summary: Halfway through his third year at college, journalism student Mike Timlin drops out to pursue his sole aspiration- to make it as a folksinger in Greenwich Village. Soon he finds a fellow musician to help bring his work to life, but as the years progress, Mike struggles with the possibility that his feelings for his partner are not strictly professional, or platonic.
1. Chapter 1

_1953_

_There is nothing quite so beautiful as autumn in New York City. _So ran Mike Timlin's thoughts as he headed down to Washington Square Park, guitar in hand and jacket zipped up tight. Thus far, he'd turned up no evidence to persuade him otherwise. Winter was nothing but a drag, and Mike had yet to spend an entire summer in the city. Springtime offered competition, but week upon week of sun was nothing compared to the rare blessing of its appearance in the fall, when the sky's smokescreen rolled away. Though the streets were less crowded, they felt cozier. Even the wind's nipping was a caress, rather than the slap in the face it became during December. And of course, the changing leaves were another rare sight to cherish. When Mike had first returned to Long Island during his freshman semester's fall break, the trees' vivid colors, which he'd previously taken for granted, proved overstimulating. Since then, autumn had never looked the same.

Finally, to Mike and the thousands of other students enrolled at New York University, autumn meant the beginning of the school year, a fresh start for new students and a chance for returning students to reconnect with old friends. _Welcome back, _the campus itself seemed to whisper. _Welcome home._

_ Home. _Mike gazed lovingly up at the tall buildings surrounding him, their grayness mingling with that of the sky above. _Not home yet, but it will be soon._

By Mike's side, Jean let out a huff, drawing his attention. He chuckled at the sight of her flushed cheeks and slack jaw. "What's the matter, Jean? A little walk's got you all tired out?"

"Just _this_ walk," Jean protested, eager as ever to defend her character. "It's your damn long legs, Mike. Would it kill you to go a little slower?"

Mike shrugged, gesturing aimlessly upwards with his free hand. "Who knows, it just might."

Jean's mild irritation turned into a playful smile. "Come on." She tapped her gloved hand against Mike's arm, and he shot her a smile of his own before speeding up, just to bug her.

By the time Mike and Jean reached Washington Square Park, the circle was already filled with musicians. Guitars were strummed, and hands were clapping. A cacophony of voices soared through the air, unified melodies splintering off into a variety of familiar songs. Mike couldn't resist peeking over at Jean, eager to see her reaction. Jean didn't meet his eyes. Vague excitement broke through her cool exterior as she drank in the sights and sounds.

"This is where the magic happens?"

Mike just laughed. If autumn in the city was the epitome of beauty, autumn in the park specifically took his breath away. He felt his muscles relax as he approached the throng, watching each person sway to their own rhythm. Although these weekly jams had been suggested as a tourist attraction, discovering them had proven to be a blessing. Outsiders made the park singalongs sound too corny, too "let's all hold hands and sing and then we'll have world peace." Though whenever Mike came down, he found it hard not to romanticize his experience.

In a moment he spotted three familiar faces, and elbowed his way through the crowd to reach them. All three men held guitars and wore faded, ragged clothes, and all were highly pleased to see him. The similarities ended there. Tall and lean, Lowell Granger strummed a much-loved guitar, a hole worn through it from his constant practice sessions. Long dark hair tumbled down the back of his neck, partially covered by a black beanie. Sam Gardu's hair was shorter, thick and curly, his skin olive-toned and his guitar well-varnished, as if he'd just picked it up from a music shop the day before. Michael Newton was much shorter than the other two, and wore glasses to help him read chord charts in the clubs where he occasionally scored gigs.

"Mikey!" Lowell called, abandoning his strumming to clap Mike's shoulder. "How's it going?"

"Going good." Mike gestured to Jean as she walked up and waved hello. "I'd like to introduce you to Jean Faber. Jean, these are my friends Lowell, Sam, and… Michael."

"Two Michaels?" Jean breathed, surveying their faces.

"Nah," Michael said with a jerk of the head. "He's Mike, and I'm Michael. We'd never know the difference otherwise."

Although Sam addressed Mike, his bright beaming face was directed towards Jean. "So, what are you doing with this lovely lady?"

"Didn't I mention her before?" Mike said. He sat down at the edge of the fountain and opened his guitar case. "I've been trying to talk Jean into coming down here for months. It's time the world hears her voice."

_"Mike," _Jean admonished.

"Don't you sing?" Lowell said. "Mike said you've got the voice of an angel."

"Did he really?" Jean rolled her eyes. "He's exaggerating. Honestly. I just came to hear the music."

"Well, there's no reason why you shouldn't join in," Mike announced. He adjusted his guitar strap over his shoulders and sprang up, strumming an aggressive chord. The sound turned a few nearby heads, which stayed turned once they realized who was playing. Mike tried not to let the attention bother him. He'd learned that even after a summer-long break, he was still a recognized figure at the park. The more he played, the more folks were drawn in. Sometimes it baffled him, when he stopped to think about it. What made him any different from the other musicians?

"What do you want to start with?" Lowell asked, already falling into place beside Mike. He, Michael, and Sam usually led a large group in a singalong, but today the crowd around them seemed thin. Mike wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that he'd shown up late. Now that he was here, perhaps more would join him.

"Have I got a song for you." His fingers landed on the guitar's strings, already picking out a melody. "There's one I learned as a kid that I've been meaning to try. Y'know 'Raglan Road?'"

Sam shook his head, but Michael nodded. Lowell moved in closer so he could watch Mike's hands, offering harmonic support. Jean drifted, shifting her weight from foot to foot and staring at the ground as if determined to sink into it.

"Okay, here we go," Mike murmured. "Try to keep up." Without another word, he launched into one of the many ballads he and his family had sung together countless years ago.

_"On Raglan Road on an autumn day, I saw her first and knew, that her dark hair would weave a snare that I may one day rue…"_

Irish verse wasn't a popular choice in the park, but sometimes those who shared Mike's roots decided to join in. Slowly but surely, the song began to spread. Sam quickly picked up the melody, while Michael fashioned a harmony. Some of the folks who had been watching Mike from afar drew closer, watching his and Lowell's fingers for the chords. In no time a circle of musicians had clustered around Mike and his group. Some sang along, while others, like Jean, simply tapped their feet slowly, but all were undeniably connected.

Emboldened, Mike allowed his voice to soar above the group. _"The Queen of Hearts still baking tarts, and I not making hay. Well I loved too much, by such and such is happiness thrown away."_

_ Ain't that the truth… _Before Mike could let the thought consume him, he began the next verse, concentrating very hard on the melody and the shape of the words. It was easier, now that a few years had passed, to not think of the difficult times he'd suffered. To replace such memories with that of multiple voices shouting, multiple hands strumming in rhythm. A Sunday-afternoon congregation pouring forth their souls under a crisp autumn sky.

Surely nothing could be better than this. Not even the joints Mike smoked from time to time, or the alcohol he'd sworn off after his disastrous freshman year, could afford him a purer high.

When the song ended, some of the musicians who'd added their voices came over to Mike, slapping his back and thanking him for pulling an old ballad out of his pocket. Lowell ran his finger along the worn hole in his guitar, grinning quietly.

"Interesting way to start… You getting nostalgic on us, Mikey?"

Mike shrugged, reluctant to explain his reasons for performing the song. He wasn't sure if he was trying to conjure up the boyhood memories of his family's nightly singalongs, or trying to block them out. Either way, it wasn't worth mentioning. Looking about for Jean, Mike quickly discovered her mingling with the crowd, already lost in conversation. As if she could sense him staring, she glanced his way. A warm smile touched her face, and Mike's heart filled with warmth as well. _Good to see she's enjoying herself._

"I wouldn't dream of it. You got anything better for us?"

For the next couple hours, Mike and his friends ripped through several of their old favorites– "House Carpenter," "In the Pines," "Silver Dagger"– while their newfound group kept up as best they could, and Jean stood swaying, drunk on the sound. Eventually, when the sun came out to play, the group dispersed for a break, and Mike sat down to re-tune his guitar. Jean sauntered up to him, her head cocked, absorbing the music surrounding her.

"Who's that?" she asked, gesturing towards a large group in the distance. Mike glanced over to see the group enthusiastically dancing and singing in a language that he knew to be Israeli.

"Zionists," he said, plucking a string and listening to its resonance. "Fun guys to watch, but we don't really mingle."

"You sure get all sorts," Jean murmured. Her gaze drifted through the crowd, her eyes hardening. Mike knew that look intimately. Jean was in the mood to challenge him.

"Do you know those guys?" she asked, jerking her chin towards a collection of young men to Mike's left. "The preps with the banjos and mandolins?"

Mike followed Jean's gaze, though he knew all too well who she was referring to. Several young men huddled around the opposite end of fountain, clad in white button-down shirts and black slacks. The mandolinists kept time, while the banjoist plucked arpeggios to accompany a particularly nebbish-looking boy as he yelped his way through a simple tune.

"The bluegrass boys. We don't mingle with them much, either," Mike explained. His eyebrows shot up. "They go to our school, d'you know that?"

Jean groaned. "Thank God we've got you to balance out that crap." She fell silent as her gaze wandered. Mike finished tuning. He was about to stand up and call for a new song, when Jean murmured, "What about that one over there? The one without an instrument. I don't suppose you mingle with _him_?"

Again, Mike knew who Jean was referring to, but he looked anyway. A young, bearded man in a fleece turtleneck had approached the bluegrass boys and was now speaking staidly to them. If he'd interacted with Mike's company, he would have come across as a kitten stumbling under the paws of tigers.

"That's Jim Berkey," Mike said. "He comes down here from Columbia Records, scouting for fresh blood. And no, we don't _mingle._" Because he didn't want to give Jean a poor impression, he decided not to mention his suspicions that the talent-scouting was a scam. Jim was a nice guy and all, but he was too tenacious for Mike's liking. _A guy's got to learn that no means no… _The only reason most of Mike's group even bothered with Jim was that he happened to be the current holder of the permit that allowed the Sunday gatherings to occur. _Don't want to get on his bad side, if he even has one._

"Columbia Records?" Jean murmured. She stood still, completely absorbed in Jim's movements. "I think I'd like to—"

She never got to announce what she would like to do, because Sam suddenly appeared, wedging his way between Jean and Mike with a bright smile. "So, Miss Jean, when are you gonna sing for us? Or is all this folk stuff not your style?"

Mike leapt up, snickering. He threw his arm around Jean and adopted the energetic tone of a carnival barker. "Oh, Jean can sing anything you put in front of her! Blues, jazz, hymns, ya name it, she's got it down!"

_"Mike!" _Jean laughed, escaping from his clutches. "I told you. Not today."

"Aw, c'mon," Sam protested. "Don't spoil the fun."

"Hey." Mike drew closer to Jean until she met his eyes. "If you really don't want to, you don't have to. But you'll be fine if you do. No one's going to laugh. Just pretend you're in my dorm and I've got a record on."

Jean stared unflinchingly back at Mike. With one look, Mike could see her resolve forming. She licked her lips and squared her shoulders, before opening her mouth. Her fragile, shaky voice formed a clear, decisive melody.

_"Come all ye fair and tender ladies… take warning how you court your men…"_

"All right," Sam exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. He reached for his guitar, his fingers shaping the chords. Mike fumbled with his own guitar, trying to accompany Jean by ear. He almost wished that Sam hadn't started playing– Jean's voice was beautiful enough on its own. The wisps of melody enveloped him, like a blanket pulled over his shoulders.

Soon enough, Lowell and Michael noticed what was happening. They crept close, wearing matching grins that Jean probably would have demanded they wipe away had she seen them. But her eyes were squeezed shut, concentrating only on the notes flowing through her. Reluctant to disturb her, but also aching to join in, Mike began a quiet harmony.

_"Oh, love is handsome, love is charming, and love is pretty while it's new… But love grows cold as love grows older, and fades away like morning dew."_

_Damn. _The words struck deep into Mike's heart, though he forced himself to shake them off and carry on. So many folk songs were infused with melancholy– to the point where they'd named a whole style of music _the blues. _Now that he'd lived some of their darker lyrics, they hurt to sing. And yet, the same sense of melancholy attracted Mike to them. Even as a carefree child, he'd been obsessed with songs that dealt with what were back then unknown emotions. _Heartbreak, devastation, anguish… _Mike only hoped that the lyrics' sting would eventually fade. It _had _to fade. Wasn't that what they said– _time heals all wounds? _Time… and in Mike's case, a recent life decision.

As the song wrapped up, Mike was startled to hear clapping. He briefly wondered who was square enough to do that, but when he found the source of the applause, he knew he shouldn't have wondered. Jim Berkey had left the bluegrass boys and was now examining Mike's group with a polite smile.

"Nicely done!"

Jean's eyes popped open. The instant she realized who had paid her the compliment, her cheeks turned pink. "…Thank you."

"Is this your first time here?" Jim said. "I haven't seen you around." He moved forward without bothering to greet Mike or Sam. Obediently, they parted to make way for him. Jean stared blankly as Jim held out his hand. "I'm Jim Berkey."

"I'm Jean Faber," Jean said softly. She took Jim's hand and gave it a hearty shake. "I haven't been around to be seen."

"I figured as much," Jim said, a more authentic smile blossoming on his face. "I would have remembered a voice like yours." The warmth emanating from his blue eyes seemed to allure Jean more than his praise. She angled her body towards him, on the verge of smiling back. Mike couldn't help but marvel from the sidelines, half awed and half concerned. Jean was rarely sweet on strangers, and as for Jim, Mike couldn't say he'd ever seen him act so genuine. He leaned closer to Jean, his stomach lurching slightly.

"Hey. You wanna do another one?"

Jean glanced at Mike with a jolt, as if she'd already forgotten he was there. "No, I… I'm fine."

"Oh, no." Jim gestured with his hands. "Please don't let me stop you."

Again Jean's full attention snapped on Jim. "I, uh. Didn't come prepared."

"We should probably be leaving soon anyway," Mike murmured. The Sunday afternoon jam session was far from the only reason he'd taken Jean out. Nerves crawled beneath his skin as he stared beyond Jim to the row of buildings bordering Washington Square.

"That's okay." From within his pocket, Jim smoothly produced a business card. He held it out to Jean, who took it and scrutinized it. "Here's my card. If you're ever interested in turning a talent into a career, give me a call." His eyes twinkled as Jean thanked him, drinking in the sight of her for a moment longer before taking his leave.

"Jim Berkey," Jean muttered, gripping the card between two fingers. "Guitarist and songwriter, Columbia Records…" She turned to Mike, an air of excitement falling over her. "Mike! This is great. You should have this." Jean tried to slip the card into Mike's hand, but he wouldn't take it.

"Already got one."

Jean's face quickly dissolved from thrilled to unimpressed. "What? And you haven't called him?"

"Why should I?" Mike said. "He's here every week. Besides, that's not… It's not how I want to earn my living."

"Really?" Jean folded her arms over her chest. "You don't want to work for Columbia? They churn out hits every day! You're bound to get a good cut, no matter whose song it is."

Mike shrugged. "Just isn't for me." Maybe if he'd give Jim a call if he failed to make enough money at a straight job… But Mike didn't relish the idea of starting his music career beholden to bigwigs. If he had to be in the studio all day, how was he supposed to find the time to work on the music that got his blood going?

"Come on." Before Jean could push the matter any further, Mike slung an arm around her shoulders and steered her away. "We'd better get going. There's something else I wanted to show you."

Jean's eyes narrowed, but she didn't argue. "Well, aren't you just full of surprises."

Despite Lowell, Michael, and Sam's protestations, Mike eventually managed to convince them that he had to leave. With his guitar in one hand and his other arm still resting on Jean's shoulders, Mike headed out of the park and down the block. On the other side of the street, he saw vendors hawking everything from warm, oversized pretzels, to cheaply-produced artwork, to unflattering jewelry. The street was crawling with taxis, yellow blotches sullying the landscape. Jean sighed and wriggled out from under Mike's arm, her step growing sure and her movements looser.

"Thanks for taking me down to the park, Mike," Jean breathed contentedly. "I really had a great time."

"Glad to hear it." Mike stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for its flashing light to change. In a couple more blocks, they'd reach their destination. "So, you've forgiven me for making you sing?"

Jean's cheerful gaze rolled to the heavens. "Y'know, now that I've done it… I can't remember why it felt so frightening."

"I knew you'd warm to the idea!" The light changed, and Mike nudged Jean. Together, they shuffled across the crosswalk. "Of course, with a voice like yours, there's no way you could fail."

Jean blew air from her cheeks, her bangs flying up. "Jesus, a little more flattery and I'm yours."

"Suuuure." _Not much farther now. _To tease Jean, Mike upped the pace, and was slightly disappointed when she didn't remark on it. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "To tell the truth, you can't fail with any of those guys. It's the best place to play. There's no judgement. We're not gonna start booing or heckling anyone we don't like. We just… _play_, and somehow, it all comes together."

"I see why you like it so much," said Jean. "It's the one place you can play where people won't think you're having a seizure."

"Hey!" Mike protested. "What are you talking about?"

_"You _know," Jean insisted. "The way you dance around with your guitar. Don't get me wrong, it's very charming. Just be careful, or you'll take someone's eye out. Or end up in an institution, whichever comes first."

"Maybe one will lead to the other," Mike murmured. He tried to squelch his silent befuddlement. Neither Jean nor anyone else had ever commented on his odd movements when playing music before.

"You see why I had to bring you down?" Their destination was up ahead; Mike could see it in the distance. As he slowed his pace, Jean impulsively took his arm. "I knew you'd appreciate it."

At the end of the sidewalk, Mike stopped abruptly and pulled his arm from Jean's grasp, gesturing toward the building before him.

"That's why I'm moving down here, too."

Across the street rose an apartment complex, which with Mike had already grown intimately familiar. In his opinion, _complex _really didn't do the place justice. The front stoop led upwards to a great doorway framed by two columns, above which was a fire escape. And to the right of the fire escape was the smudged window upon which Mike eagerly set his sights.

"Wait." Jean turned slowly to Mike, her large, beseeching eyes filling his range of vision. "Christ, Mike, you mean one of the apartments over _there_?"

"Yep." Mike pointed to the right-side window with one hand, while orienting Jean with the other. "That one, specifically."

Jean's gaze shifted, and a baffled laugh fell from her mouth. "How the hell did you end up with a room on the second floor?"

"I jumped on it as soon as I saw the ad in the _Voice." _Mike slid his hand from Jean's shoulder and stepped closer to her side. "Low rent for this neighborhood. I got lucky. Someone died in that room, and it spooked the landlord."

"How'd that happen?" Jean murmured, her forehead creasing.

"The previous owner threw himself out the window," Mike explained. "Or so they say. I guess he didn't die _in _the room, but still. Supposed to be haunted."

Jean shook her head. "From that angle? There's no way the fall would have killed him…"

Mike shrugged. "That's what they say. Anyway, the place is mine now. I signed the lease last weekend, and as soon as I can get my stuff together I'm all set to move in." He studied Jean's face for a reaction. Her inscrutable eyes drifted back to the window of soon-to-be-Mike's apartment, and remained there for a long moment before returning to Mike.

"Guess you're getting rid of the dorm for good?"

"Yeah. Good riddance, am I right?" Mike nodded fondly towards the apartment. "This is definitely a step up."

"Yeah, if you want to commute to class every day," Jean muttered.

A flicker of annoyance kindled in Mike's heart. In order not to become crestfallen, he held onto it and let it blossom. "Aw, don't be so sentimental, Jean. That dorm was never meant to be permanent."

"I'm serious." Jean turned, and Mike turned with her, meeting her eyes. "Don't get me wrong, it's a nice place. I'm happy for you. But how are you going to afford it? You're not gonna beg your folks for money, are you?"

_"Christ _no." Mike exhaled slowly. "I'm gonna find me a job, once I'm all moved in." Hoping to reassure Jean, he offered a comforting smile. "I've got it all planned out. You don't need to worry on my behalf."

Jean's frown told Mike that she remained unconvinced. She tossed a long strand of hair from her eyes. "When will you find the time to work? I've seen your schedule, Mike. It's not what I'd call accommodating."

"I…" Mike stopped himself as Jean's words touched a sore spot. He was tempted to tell Jean that he had no idea, because her disappointment was comparatively bearable. But since he'd already revealed so much about his plans, there was no going back. Jean had to find out eventually, and prolonging the inevitable news would cause more damage in the long run.

"Actually I'll have plenty of time," Mike breathed. He rested his hand on Jean's upper arm, studying her pale face. The admission escaped quietly from his lips, his nonchalance masking the nervous flutter in his stomach. "I'm leaving NYU, Jean. This is going to be my last semester."

Part of Mike expected Jean to selfishly berate him. Already he had concocted several deflecting arguments to use on his behalf. However, while the news had definitely stricken Jean, she didn't immediately open her mouth. Instead she stepped back, breaking Mike's hold on her, and folded her arms over her chest.

"Have you told anyone?"

"The school knows. My professors know." _And now you know. _Mike chose not to mention that he'd failed to inform his parents of his decision. _Rather save that conversation for December. _Jean was aware that his relationship with them was strained, but had never questioned why, which was all Mike asked of her. He knew there was no way in hell he could decently explain his motivation to cut all ties with them, without revealing information about himself that Jean might reject. Besides, she'd grown up under different circumstances, and though she respected Mike, she didn't understand that loyalty to one's family wasn't everything.

With an uncertain hand, Jean brushed her hair back behind her ear. When she spoke, her voice balanced on equally unsteady ground. "So… you're not planning on writing for the papers anymore?"

Mike shook his head without having to think twice. Even before he'd made the decision to move to Greenwich Village, his interest in journalism had been the first to falter. He supposed his family would swallow a half-truth– that he'd withdrawn from NYU's journalism program because he'd lost his passion for it. However, the part they'd find unbelievable was the passion that had replaced it.

"I'm tired of ignoring my instincts, Jean." Mike took a deep breath. "You saw what it was like at the park today. All summer long, I couldn't wait to get back there, and now… It's like I'm coming home." Just remembering the joy of the hours past brought a soft smile to Mike's face. "That's what I want to do, more than anything else in the world. I'd be happy to play music for the rest of my life."

Instantly Jean's face softened, and Mike could tell that he'd won her over. Music didn't pump through Jean's veins the way it did Mike's, but he knew that it held a special place in her heart. It was their most common bond, one that they'd developed through singalongs in Mike's dorm, his finger-picking matching the speed of the record on his turntable while Jean conjured harmonies from thin air. It had been enough to convince Mike to bring her to the park, because he'd known she would love it. He wasn't surprised that she approved. _More than my folks ever will._

"I'm going to miss seeing you around all the time," Jean said earnestly. "But goddammit, Mike, you deserve it."

Before Mike could stop himself, the words he'd meant to conceal until a later date slipped out. "You don't have to miss me."

Jean tilted her chin upwards, peering quizzically into Mike's eyes. A flash of regret bit into Mike. He'd spoken too soon. He should have waited at least until winter break, at best by the time the school year was over, slowly encouraging the idea until nothing about it seemed strange. Otherwise, such a suggestion came from out of the blue. But as Mike remembered the nights that he had spent walking the streets with Jean, and how she'd welcomed him into her home and confessed to him her most intimate thoughts, his resolve strengthened. He'd never know unless he asked.

"Now that I've got a new place, I was thinking… maybe you'd like to move in with me once you graduate." He nearly halted, but forged ahead, determined not to break the flow of his words. "I know you've got another year left, but… it seems to me—"

"What?" Jean broke in. Her lips curled in what looked to be a smile, but there was a tight edge to it, as though she couldn't figure out if Mike was joking. She gave an awkward laugh. "Come on. My mother would never let me move in with a guy if I didn't marry him first."

Mike forced himself to stare down at Jean, and not at his feet. "I don't know. I just thought– you're my best friend, Jean, and we get along so well, I just—"

"Is this a proposal?" Jean blurted.

The question brought Mike up short. His heart began to pound. _IS this a proposal? _He'd realized that his words could be taken that way, but he wasn't sure what he was offering Jean. Scrutinizing her face, he tried to decipher Jean's thoughts on the matter. To determine her likelihood of saying yes or no. But her eyes were dark and remote.

"Maybe?" Mike finally admitted, in a small, weak voice.

Emotion rushed back to Jean's face, her eyes and mouth both widening with disbelief. "But we're not even—"

"I know," Mike cut in, holding up his hands. "I know, I– God, just, uh, just forget I said anything."

Now the disbelief on Jean's face changed to a sense of appalled remorse. She fidgeted with her hands, reaching out halfway as if she wanted to touch Mike, but was unable to go the final distance.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know that you—"

"No, it's okay." Mike breathed heavily. "I'm not in love with you, Jean."

"Oh." Jean's face changed fluidly yet again, from regret to perplexment. She turned away from Mike, casting her gaze back to the apartment complex across the street, while Mike glanced down at his scuffed shoes on the sidewalk.

He couldn't say, after three years of friendship, that he didn't wish he _was _in love with Jean. A few times, he'd even managed to partially convince himself that he was. It would have been an easy choice, given their closeness. And it might have saved him from the heartbreak he'd suffered in his freshman year, when he'd first felt the full force of the blues.

But while Mike regarded Jean tenderly, he'd never felt his heart skip a beat while looking into her eyes. His stomach had never crawled with nerves at the thought of seeing her. He hadn't wasted time in class daydreaming about her and rehearsing his next move.

Only a handful of people had thus far affected Mike in such a way, and none of them were women.

_Stupid idea. _Slowly but surely, Mike shook away his heart's lingering disappointment. His proposition to Jean was just the latest attempt to feel something _more _for her, to convince himself that he was in fact a normal human being. _Should have known I'll never be normal. _Not after what he'd went through his freshman year. His imagined feelings for Jean were nothing more than wishful thinking.

A tentative nudge at Mike's shoulder drew his attention back to the present. "You've picked out a gorgeous place, Mike. I'm glad you're staying down here."

"Yeah." Mike reached down to pick up his guitar case from the sidewalk. "So 'm I." He turned to Jean with a sensitive smile emerging on his lips. "D'you want to go grab a coffee before we leave?"

Jean returned the smile, and the sight struck Mike with warmth. "Sure." She held out her arm, and Mike took it. Together, they headed down the street, and with each step, Mike felt his excitement grow.

He wasn't sure what the future had in store for him. The thought of informing his parents that he'd dropped out of school was intimidating, as was the thought of searching for a job in a field he hadn't studied. But at the same time, Mike couldn't wait to begin his new life in Greenwich Village. He itched to contact venues who might be interested in booking folksingers, and to spend more time with his friends in the city. Most of all, he anticipated the influx of free time and independence, now that he didn't have to worry about making it to class on time or staying up late at night with textbooks spread out in front of him. Soon, music would quite literally become Mike's life, and if he stuck to it, he'd never fall to a case of the blues again.


	2. Chapter 2

_1954_

Mike quickly came to discover that moving to Greenwich Village was a process more time-consuming than he'd anticipated. He'd outlined a vague plan to follow once he'd secured the apartment, but over the coming months, the plan was squashed, molded, and reshaped depending on his life's various stimuli. First, there was the matter of moving his belongings from his dorm on NYU's campus to his brand-new Village apartment. Then came the question of furnishing said apartment. Mike's low budget allowed for little in the way of classiness, so he pieced together a mismatched assortment from multiple acquaintances– an old coffee table that Jean's parents had stored in their attic, a ratty, soda-stained sofa that Sam's family was ready to trade in, a mattress from an anonymous donor that had been left on the curb and, despite a single tear, seemed as good as new. Tableware, glassware, and cutlery came next, though Mike had no table on which to display them. Clothes were hung up in the closet, the bed was made with sheets from Mike's dorm, and Mike's guitar, bass, and mandolin made themselves at home in a corner of the bedroom. After a brief debate, Mike decided not to scrounge for any rugs. His boots on the hardwood floors created a pleasing percussive tone, reminding himself that he was _here _and this was his own space. All he needed now were the rest of his belongings from his parents' house, and a means of keeping the fridge fully-stocked and his lease up to date. Although he didn't have much, he felt a burst of pride every time he set foot in the tiny apartment.

Mike had hoped that his apartment would be finished in time to hold a Christmas party, but instead he spent the holidays with a rotating cast of characters, beginning with Jean's welcoming family and ending in a Village bar with his arms around Sam and Lowell, cheerfully serenading patrons with "Auld Lang Syne." During those weeks, he tried not to think about the contents of the letter he'd just mailed home, explaining to his parents that he wasn't interested in spending the holidays with them, that he'd found a place for himself in the city, and that he'd chosen not to continue his academic career at New York University. He'd left a return address, but no phone number, which he hoped would dissuade his parents from seeking him out. _If they come all the way out here just to try and take me back, they're more tenacious than I thought._

Unfortunately, once everything Mike had taken to school with him was safely installed within his apartment, he came to the conclusion that he was the one who would have to come back. He had many of the essentials required for a solitary life in New York City, but there was one jarring omission– his records. The few he'd brought with him to his home away from home weren't enough. He also needed his summer clothing, and of course a way to transport it all, which meant he'd have to take his car. After agonizing over his options for a while, Mike finally decided it would be best to make the trip up to Long Island over the first weekend in January, unannounced. His family would be at church early Sunday morning, giving him a bit of time to collect his things before any of them barged in.

It took no time to make arrangements with an old high school friend, someone with whom Mike could spend the night before proceeding to his parents' house. The train came to collect Mike at Penn Station early on Saturday evening. He spent the hours following the transfer at Jamaica alternating between sleeping, and struggling to write lyrics. Many of the serious musicians with whom Mike had played at Washington Square Park had suggested that he give songwriting a shot, and Mike agreed that it was an ideal form of self-expression. However, the poetry he composed always felt flat and unfinished, no matter what he wrote.

At last the train arrived in Sayville, whereupon Mike debarked and scanned his surroundings for his friend Ron's car. He wasn't quite sure what to make of his generous hospitality. Three years ago, moving to college had felt like the end of an era, leaving Mike panicking at the possibility of losing his friends. Yet now that he'd made so many more friends in the city, the relationships he'd fostered back on Long Island had stagnated. _That's the way it goes, I guess._

Mike stepped off the curb once he noticed Ron's familiar red Mustang, parked only a couple feet away. Hauling his overnight bag behind him, he approached the car from the passenger side. Ron was behind the wheel, but he didn't seem to notice Mike until the latter had tapped on the window, whereupon he jumped and leaned over to roll it down.

"Mike!" Myriad emotions flashed through Ron's eyes– cautiousness, surprise, welcome. "Is that really you? Y—" He bit his tongue, clearly preventing himself from pointing out the obvious: _You've changed. _Mike nodded, opening the door and sliding inside. He held back his equally-obvious response– _Good._

The evening at Ron's place was spent wrapped in polite conversation, the sort made between two people who no longer understand how to interact with each other. Mike found himself relieved when the time came to head off to bed. Though he wouldn't have to leave until after 11:00 the following day, he awoke to dawn's golden rays streaming through flimsy curtains. It wasn't long after that he had breakfast, thanked his host, called a cab, and fled the house. Ron had offered to drive him to his house, but Mike had refused, afraid that Ron might want to stop in and see if his family was home. Besides, he had a few dollars left over from his train fare.

When Mike's driveway came into view, he only spotted one parked car– his own. A long sigh tumbled from his lips. It felt like ages had passed since he'd driven it. _Well, today I'll break the streak. _The empty house left him free to steal silently in, grab his own belongings, and head out. As Mike walked up to the front door, he clinically catalogued all the sights that he would never witness again– the crumbling red brick steps, the ivy threatening to smother the windows, the leaky drainpipe, the perpetually-clogged gutters. But nothing he saw produced an emotional reaction, other than satisfaction at the thought of leaving them.

The interior of the house looked just as it had when Mike had left it. By the television set, there was the same off-white couch protected by a cover of plastic. There was the same crucifix mounted to the wall, and facing it on the opposite wall, a copy of the Ten Commandments. Overall, the house bore the same unsettling aura of not being fully lived in. Mike hadn't noticed it until he'd returned for his freshman year's fall break, but once he had, he could never recall the house's familiar comforts. There was a lingering sense that if Mike settled down and tried to make himself at home, one of his parents would rush up and demand to know what he thought he was doing.

Mike didn't notice anything out of the ordinary as he traveled up the stairs, but once he reached the second floor's landing, he noticed a light shining through the crack at the bottom of a nearby door. Was someone home? Mike stood in place, holding his breath in the hopes that he'd sense movement within, but he heard nothing. _Whatever. _At least the bedroom belonged to one of his siblings, and not to his parents. _Nothing could tear them away from eleven o'clock worship. _Confidently he made his way across the floor. It was only when he'd passed the door that he heard it creak open behind him, and a voice call out. "M- Mike?!"

Mike whirled around to see a familiar face peeking out from behind the bedroom door– a face that bore a strong resemblance to his own. Same pale, spotless skin, same long nose, same blue eyes wide with shock.

"Hey, Chris!" Plastering on a bright smile, Mike walked over to where his brother had inserted himself between the door and the frame. "What're you doing at home? Shouldn't you be in church?"

"Sick," Chris muttered. As if to prove his point, he followed the statement up with a cough. "Why are _you _here."

The flatness of Chris' voice briefly gave Mike pause. He wasn't sure if he should interpret his reaction as secondhand disapproval, passed down from his parents, or as typical teenage moodiness. Though he hoped it was the latter, he chose his words carefully. "Just wanted to come home to get some of my things. It's hard, getting around without my car."

Chris' brow furrowed. "Where d'you have to _go?"_

Mike shrugged. To be fair, he really didn't have an answer, much less one that would satisfy Chris. The frustration of driving in the city wasn't worth the amount of money he'd save by not taking the subway, and now that he'd decided this would be his last trip home, he couldn't think of anywhere else outside the city to which he'd need to travel. However, he didn't want to admit to Chris that he only needed his car to transport his record collection.

"Hey, when our folks come back, would you mind not mentioning that I was here?" Mike tried not to rush his words. "I'm just gonna grab my stuff and get out. I don't want to upset them because they missed seeing me."

"Uh…" Chris' face was a blank mask. He shifted in place, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder before returning his gaze to Mike. "Sure. What'll it cost ya?"

"Excuse me?"

Chris sniffed. "Said it'll cost ya." He held out his hand palm up, staring expectantly into Mike's eyes.

For a moment, Mike was at a loss for words. Since the day his brother had entered the world, when Mike was four years old, he'd always known him as a sweet, obedient kid. His current blunt demeanor was unsettling. Quickly Mike fumbled for composure, laughing aside the request.

"What, you're asking for a bribe?"

_"Whatever." Disdain filled Chris' face, though his hand remained extended. "I'm not gonna help you if there's nothing in it for—"_

_ "Wait a minute," Mike cut in. He hadn't noticed it until Chris held out his hand, but now he sensed a distinct scent permeating his clothes. It was a recognizable scent that Mike had never taken to, despite its constant presence throughout New York City. He inhaled deeply through his nose. The air tickled the back of his throat, urging him to cough– just the way Chris had when he greeted Mike—_

_ "Are you smoking __in there?"_

_ "Wha—"_

_ Before Chris could finish a single syllable, Mike pushed the bedroom door open. He was greeted by a heap of dirty laundry at the foot of Chris' bed, a window pushed open halfway, and a cigarette sitting in an ashtray on top of Chris' desk, still glowing._

_ "Jesus, Chris." A wave of disappointment rolled through Mike. Since when had his brother picked up such a habit? Though I guess we all have our vices… __"Don't you know any better?" Decisively, Mike stepped forward, Chris shadowing his every move, until he'd reached the desk. Ignoring Chris' protest, he picked up the cigarette and stubbed it out, before bending down in search of a wastebasket. "This stuff is nasty, man. You'd rather sit here sucking down smoke instead of attending church?" _

_ "Beats sitting on a hard-ass pew for hours," Chris spat defensively._

_ Mike shook his head. "My word, you've got a mouth on you." He was well-aware of his hypocrisy. He'd smoked stronger substances, used stronger language, and overall delved deeper into the depths of sin, while Chris was only scratching the surface. He was even inclined to agree with his brother. Staying home sounded preferable to attending services for a faith with which he no longer agreed. But Mike had tasted forbidden pleasures only after he'd left for college, free to explore the world at his pace. It was wrong for Chris to partake in such behavior when he was still living under his parents' roof… when a single wrong move could ruin his life._

_ Lifting up the wastebasket from under the desk, Mike found it devoid of all content. This struck him as unusual, considering the junk scattered across Chris' floor. "Where d'you want me to throw out the ash?"_

_ Chris grunted sullenly. "Just flush it down the toilet. Here—" His fingers clutched at the ashtray, swiping it up before Mike could blink. "I'll __do it."_

_ "Okay," Mike muttered. He stepped aside, waiting for Chris to leave the room, before following along and shutting the door behind him. "You might want to change your clothes," he called to Chris' retreating back. "Before they come back, I mean."_

_ "Duh," __Chris retaliated as he reached the bathroom. "I was going __to. I'm not a dumbass."_

_ Sure. __Mike stayed where he was, watching the bathroom door, until he heard the toilet flush. Something told him that he wouldn't have any trouble convincing his brother to lie for him now._

_ As Mike had expected, it didn't take much time to load up his car with his records and spare clothing. However, carrying every box in which he'd stored his records down the stairs made the process tedious._

_ "So why don't you want Mother and Father to know you were here?" Chris asked, halfway between the first and second floors._

_ Mike huffed as he carefully adjusted his grip on the box. "Maybe I'll tell you when you're older."_

_ "Did you knock up that girl you were with last Christmas?" Chris asked nonchalantly. _

_ Mike gave Chris a blank look over his shoulder. "What girl are you talking about?"_

_ "That one you introduced us to when we came to pick you up from school," Chris said. So focused was Mike on staring back at him that he nearly missed the last step, stumbling over his own feet. "The snooty one with the long hair and the nice—"_

_ "You mean Jean?" Mike shook his head rapidly. "Nah, she and I, uh– Like I said, I'll tell you when you're older." He fought the urge to chuckle sarcastically. If luck would have it, Chris would never get to hear the full story. It wasn't Jean that I…_

_Loading up the car took hardly any time, but Mike still found himself anxiously checking his watch. Chris stared down from the front stoop, his arms folded across his chest, as Mike opened the driver's door. _

_ "See you, Chris." The words were mechanical. "Stay in school. Keep your nose clean."_

_ Chris only scoffed wordlessly, which Mike took as his cue to hop inside. His palms were sweating as he started the car, half-afraid that his parents would drive up at any moment with the rest of the family. But as he pulled out of the driveway, steeling himself for the next few hours spent with his butt glued to the seat, his trepidation gave way to elation. He'd done it. At last, he was leaving his home behind. Good riddance to that godforsaken island. __It was time to forget the past, and start anew._


	3. Chapter 3

As Mike settled into the rhythm of Greenwich Village, he soon found himself free to pursue the idea of where the hell he was supposed to find a job. With several copies of his resume in one hand, and his guitar in the other, he made his way through the city, knocking on the doors of department stores, eateries, and offices alike. Every conversation Mike conducted with a manager heightened his sense of inadequacy, but he persevered. Dropping out of college looked better on a resume than no college experience at all. Besides, the job wasn't the be-all and end-all of his life. He only needed it to hold him over until he became an established figure in NYC's music scene.

Which was where the guitar came in. Between visits to whatever seemed an accessible working venue, Mike stopped by the friendliest street corners the city had to offer, brought out his guitar, and performed for the empty air. Though he left his guitar case open on the ground before him, the need for money didn't compel him to play. Nor did the need to for recognition. Not really. He simply played for the _need. _The music stirred in his blood and the lyrics rattled around his head, breathing warmth into his soul. Pedestrians usually passed him by, but whenever a pair of eyes flickered Mike's way, an insistent desperation tugged at him. As long as _one _person listened… that was all he asked for. That was all he desired.

As Mike's visits to the street corners grew more frequent, his attendance at the singalongs in Washington Square Park dropped. It wasn't long before his companions noticed. "Hey Mikey!" Michael called out one Sunday afternoon, mere minutes after Mike had taken out his guitar. "Was that you I saw on the corner of 10th and Bleecker the other day? Tearing it up on 'Tell Old Bill?'"

"Who, me?" Mike replied.

"Sure looked like you," said Michael. "Sounded a lot like you, too. You got a twin brother running around somewhere?"

Mike smirked as he sat down on the edge of the fountain. "You should have come over and said hi."

Sam groaned. "Damn, Mike. I know times are tough, but I never thought I'd see you stoop to busking."

A half-hearted chuckled fell from Mike's mouth. "What's wrong with it? I'm getting experience."

"Experience?" Lowell declared. "That's what this place is for!"

Mike rolled his eyes. "If you're just gonna bust my balls over this, it's not worth discussing."

Sam raised his hands in defeat. "Hey, we're not stopping you. Just, I dunno… it seems a little crass."

"Though not as crass as that language of yours," Michael joked as he sat down beside Mike, giving his shoulder a friendly punch.

Mike felt that he should take offense, but he quickly realized it wasn't worth it. "_You_ don't have to do it, then. What I do with my spare time is my business."

When it came to how much Mike enjoyed busking, his friends' teasing meant very little. No, he didn't make much money from it. No, he didn't attract major crowds. Yes, sometimes a police officer happened to stroll by and warn him to knock it off. None of that meant that Mike would stop doing it. With the newfound sun warming his skin and a song on his lips, Mike had never felt better. He pitied his former classmates, whose academic schedules still governed their lives. It would be hard for them to find such freedom even after graduation.

Eventually, Mike's long search for gainful employment paid off, via a call from the local grocery store regarding his previous meeting with a manager. Standing up all day ringing up items at a cash register didn't sound particularly invigorating, but if it helped pay the rent, Mike couldn't complain. Soon, Mike's time spent playing music was restricted to post-sundown, resting his sore feet on the coffee table that used to belong to Jean's parents while he scribbled down marks on self-drawn staff paper. Having picked up notation solely from singing hymns in church, and studying his family's old songbooks, Mike knew full well that his attempts were rudimentary, but it was his only available mode of self-expression. The dream of bringing other musicians into the fold had overtaken him, driving him to create homemade chord charts. _Can't play a mando solo while I'm strumming the guitar, unless I grow an extra set of hands._

Being momentarily financially stable, and having a roof over his head, Mike decided it was time to move to the next phase of his plan to launch a music career. He needed enough exposure to attract either a label, or potential bandmates, whichever came first. The only natural place to start was Washington Square. Unfortunately, working all week severely cut into Mike's schedule, but he was confident that he'd attract attention the instant he was able to return. What had once seemed daunting now excited Mike. If he believed in himself, surely he would embody the perfect traits for success.

When Mike finally made it to the park after a month of working through the weekend, he was surprised to find that a throng of people had already clustered around his usual spot by the fountain. _Were they waiting for me? _Hurriedly Mike rushed towards them, prepared to tell them that their behavior was ridiculous, when a familiar voice caught his ear. His heart performed a salmon-leap in his chest.

_…Jean?_

Carefully, Mike made his way through the crowd to the usual spot. The instant he caught sight of her, he fell completely still. Jean stood before the crowd, her hands clasped and her body swaying in rhythm. Mike doubted she was able to look any of the bystanders in the eye, but her eyes were reserved only for the man accompanying her on guitar– Jim Berkey.

_ "I'll go down to the river while everyone's asleep," _the two sang in perfect, close harmony._ "Think of handsome Molly, and then lay down and weep." _Mike marveled at how beautifully Jean's soprano voice caressed Jim's sweet tenor. It was rare that he heard Jim sing. He'd only seen him offer instrumental accompaniment to those singing in the park. But without a crowd to drown him out, it was clear that he had found a perfect match. The song was familiar to Mike, but even if he'd had his guitar out, he couldn't have brought himself to play it. Onlookers were spellbound, drunk on the sound of two voices together, their faces as rapturous as when they watched professionals play. _When they watch ME play._ A jolt went through Mike.

_ "Wished I was in London, some other seaport town," _sang Jim and Jean._ "Get myself on a steamship and I'll sail the ocean 'round." _A smile blossomed on Jean's face as Jim began to play a short solo. Though she had finished singing, she didn't sit down or turn to the crowd, instead watching Jim play with a reverence Mike had only seen her exhibit when watching a jazz band take the stage at the Village Vanguard. In that moment, Jim was Jean's whole world. If they'd been wrapped in each other's arms, it couldn't have been more intimate.

A few cheers rose up when the song was over. Jim gazed out at the sea of people who had congregated, unable to hide his grin. "Thanks, everybody! We're Jim and Jean." Mike tried not to visibly cringe. This wasn't the place for thanking an audience. The park was meant to be collaborative, a synergistic effort between peers. As much as it pleased Mike to see that Jean had returned, he didn't like the idea of her and Jim elevating themselves over the rest of the group. Then he reprimanded himself. _How is it any different from the reaction you're used to?_

At last, Jean acknowledged her audience. She caught sight of Mike almost instantly, her face lighting up. "Mike!" Heads turned in Mike's direction as Jean rushed over to hug him.

"Jesus, I thought you'd dropped off the face of the earth." Jean delightedly stepped back as Mike shook his head. "I found a job. Same difference, right?" He was about to put his arm around Jean's shoulder, the way he'd done countless times in the past, but from behind her back, Jim's wide, searching eyes latched onto his, and the urge fizzled out in a sudden flash.

"Hey, Mike." Jim set down the guitar that he'd just put away and came over to slap Mike's shoulder. "Good to see you in the park again. Where've you been hiding?"

Mike shrugged. "Here and there. If you can't find me on the street, stop by the supermarket on Bleecker Monday through Saturday, from 9 to 5." Noticing Jean's grimace, he plunged ahead with the conversation before either she or Jim could question what he was doing with a job like that. "So, looks like the two of you have got some explaining to do."

"What do you mean?" Jean said, while Jim just laughed. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"You're telling me." Mike surveyed their faces, and the way they'd unconsciously crept closer to each other. "Last time I saw Jean at the park, she could barely sing a note with all these people watching. What gives?"

"Well." Without looking at her, Jim slid his arm around Jean and hugged her tightly. "I figure having a partner will cure anyone's stage fright."

Though Mike had never been one to play dumb before, he pressed further, hoping one of them would spell it out. "A partner, eh?" He fixed Jean with a knowing look, and though her eyes told him that she would rather not go into details, she didn't move from under Jim's arm.

"Mike, Jim and I are going steady." Jean quickly glanced to Jim, her mouth twisting in a half-smile. "I mean—"

"I know," Jim chuckled, as if finishing the laugh that Jean had barely released. "When you put it that way, it sounds pretty teenage."

"Hey, that's great." Mike hoped he sounded as genuine as he felt. He didn't want to give Jim the impression that he was jealous. But truth be told, he wasn't sure what to think of the news. Replaying Jean's first interaction with Jim in his mind, he supposed he should have seen it coming. She hadn't spoken so sweetly to anyone else she'd met that day.

"Since when? Before or after you decided to start singing?"

"Um… More like during." Fondness overwhelmed Jim's expression as he gazed at his partner. His hand slid from her shoulder to her waist, and Jean hugged Jim back, looking as happy as she ever had when she was on Mike's arm. Though it was impolite, Mike couldn't help but stare for a few seconds too long. Two happy lovebirds, entwined like a guitar's string around a fret. A physical manifestation of their soaring voices, blending mellifluously in harmony.

A hard feeling welled up in Mike's stomach, taking him by surprise. _If only such a thing was possible for me to find._

Another musician, or perhaps a spectator, came over to slap Jim's shoulder and compliment his singing, leaving Jim distracted. Slowly Jean's attention turned to Mike, though her grip remained on Jim. She smiled broadly, deliberately. "So what's it like being a hotshot with your own apartment? Chicks must be tripping over themselves to get in the door."

Caught off-guard, Mike forced a laugh. "Sure, if you think eating dinner off the floor because you haven't saved up enough for a table is glamorous, I guess that makes me a catch." He shrugged, grinning. "It's got a certain, uh… _je ne sais quoi."_

Jean let go of Jim, who didn't appear to notice, engrossed in conversation. She stepped towards Mike, and for a second Mike forgot all that had happened between September of the previous year, and his current visit to the park. He and Jean were silly college students who made an oddball couple– one a seasoned, born-and-bred New Yorker who knew exactly how to sneak out of her house and back without her parents discovering her, and the other a straight-laced Irishman-by-way-of-Long Island, whose exuberance masked his dark, deep-seated doubts. Mike had lost his innocence, and Jean had stayed the same, and together they'd frequented bars, diners, and other nooks and crannies throughout the city that Mike had always left Jean to find. But now that Mike had shared his own discovery with her, he realized it wasn't _his _anymore, nor was Jean. The singalongs at Washington Square had never been his in the first place, not since people like Jim Berkey got their hands on them.

"Seriously. How are you?" Jean's dark eyes implored Mike, urging him to confess all that he'd ever left unsaid. "I've missed seeing you around. You haven't even invited me over."

"You mean to say you've got time to think about me with that new man of yours?" Mike teased.

Jean's eyes hardened unexpectedly. "Don't be like that. I thought you were happy for us."

"What–? I _am _happy, Jean." The sudden change in Jean's demeanor baffled Mike. He'd only ever heard Jean use such a tone of voice on waiters who had bungled her order, or creeps who hassled her on the street. His palms sweat. _God, what if she DOES think I'm jealous?_

"I'm glad you've found someone. I'm just…" Mike blew out a breath, deciding he could afford a bit of negativity. "Surprised, is all."

Jean stole a glance at Jim, who was now knee-deep in conversation with several musicians, before managing a thoughtful nod. "I am too. Jim and I…" Again she glanced surreptitiously at Jim, before returning her gaze to Mike with an air of certainty. "I found Jim again through his business card. He was happy to hear from me, said he was looking for a female singer for a group he'd just joined. But it wasn't a group, it was just him. We were running through the harmonies, and, well. One thing led to another."

Mike gave Jean a playful shove. "Please tell me you didn't do anything I wouldn't do."

Jean stared down at her arm where Mike had shoved her. For a moment she looked as if she was about to reprimand him, but she shook it off with a laugh. "Jesus, Mike, I'd still be a virgin locked up in my mother's basement if I followed that advice."

Mike snorted at Jean's audaciousness. "Well, don't shout it so the world can hear."

Jean rolled her eyes. "Prude."

The conversation lulled for a moment before Jean spoke up again. "You haven't met anyone, have you?"

"Ah…" Mike scrambled to find an answer that would satisfy without revealing information he wasn't comfortable sharing. "I haven't been looking. Come on." He flashed a smile. "And two-time my guitar? _You _know this, Jean."

"There's more to life than making music," Jean said quietly. "I want you to be happy."

_More to life? _Mike shook off the notion. They'd been friends for three years, and somehow Jean still didn't understand the depth of Mike's devotion to his craft.

"I told you, I _am _happy. You don't have to worry about me."

They were spared from further conversation when Jim wandered over, eyes bright and glowing. "Hey, sorry to leave you hanging," he addressed Mike, while sliding his arm around Jean's shoulders as if it belonged there. "Jean? I'm about to head out. You want to stop by the Reggio before we go?"

"Sure," Jean said, immediately abandoning her interest in Mike. "Let's go." Staring into Jim's eyes, she shared a smile with him, and the same hard feeling returned to Mike's stomach. But it couldn't be jealousy. He loved Jean dearly, but not in _that _way, how could he possibly be…

Jim slapped Mike's forearm. "Great seeing you, man. Oh— before I forget, there's something that I wanted to ask you."

The words piqued Mike's interest. "Yeah?"

Jim took a deep breath. "Now that Jean and I are singing together, I was thinking. It might be nice to turn the group into a trio. Jean's told me how much she loves singing with you, and man, I've never seen anyone pick a Gibson the way you do." Jim blinked, which nearly startled Mike. He watched Jim's lips move, hearing but not listening to the words.

"I work with lots of guys, Mike, and I know talent when I see it. If I were you, I wouldn't let it go to waste."

A distinct surge of emotion went through Mike as he considered Jim's proposal. He recognized the emotion as negative, but he couldn't quite puzzle out why he felt that way. Jim's offer was made in good faith, with no harmful ulterior motives. He genuinely wanted Mike to add his voice to the perfect balance that he and Jean already shared. But somehow, Mike couldn't shake the feeling that Jim was offering charity. _Look at that poor aspiring folksinger, _his eyes seemed to say. _Struggling to make it in Greenwich Village with a menial job and no gigs lined up. _Even worse, he'd gotten Jean in on the act as well. Both of them now scrutinized him from their lofty perch. While Mike recognized that this was far from the truth, he couldn't make himself believe so. His fist clenched at his side.

"Hey, c'mon," he said in an almost aggressively jovial tone. "I'm not letting anything go to waste."

Jim backtracked, clearly realizing his misstep. "I don't mean that, Mike— I'm not trying to undermine—"

"It's fine," Mike interrupted. "I'm just… not interested in your offer. I'd rather go it alone." Hoping he hadn't offended Jim, he struck a rueful grin. "No hard feelings, right?"

"All right," Jim breathed, an apologetic smile wreathing across his face. "I'm just saying. You have what it takes, Mike. You'd do well on your own, or with a group."

"Thank you." Mike took a step back, surveying Jim's face before casually shifting his gaze to Jean. He thought he saw a trace of disappointment in her eyes, but when she blinked and looked away, he convinced himself that he'd imagined it.

"Come on." Jean took Jim's hand. "We've got to go." Addressing Mike, she said, "I'll see you around. Give me a call, will ya?"

"Will do." Mike watched Jim and Jean disappear easily into the crowd of people. Whatever conversation they were holding was lost in the whisper of strummed guitars and the reverent shout of song lyrics.

Sighing, Mike sat down on the edge of the fountain and undid the latches on his guitar case. He shook his head, trying to clear the awkwardness that had emerged when Jim had invited him to join him and Jean. _What was that all about? _It wasn't that he hated Jim. He never had. But sometimes when he spoke to Jim, he couldn't help but wish he was more assertive, rougher around the edges and more foul-mouthed. There was an ugly side within him to which only Mike was privy, and something about Jim's presence made Mike long to bring it to the surface. _Well, at least she's happy. _Mike never would have dreamed that Jean would fall for a guy like Jim, but their interactions appeared genuine. She wasn't just using Jim as a crutch in the music business– she seemed to truly have feelings for him. _Good for her. Now, if the same could be said about me…_

As Mike drew out his guitar, he tried to set aside his foolishness. Love might someday pay him a visit. It was a slim chance, but Mike had yet to give up hope. However, as he tuned his guitar and then launched into a couple of his favorite tunes, he felt a distant ache seize him, the longing to commune with another soul in the act of making music. Somewhere out there was a harmony looking for Mike's melody. He'd never realized before how badly he wanted to find it.


	4. Chapter 4

Mike had only one plan on his first weekday away from work, and like so many of his plans, this one involved a guitar and a park bench. Now that he was making steady money, the urge to busk was less dire, but Mike was still driven to practice publicly as much as possible. The warm sun did nothing but spur his desire. August was in full force, and its power rivaled that of September's beauty. Why spend the day cooped up inside practicing scales, when he could be enjoying the open air at the same time? It was a surefire cure for the blues any day of the week.

Playing near Washington Square Park on a weekday was risky, considering that Mike couldn't afford a license to busk. He doubted that the cops cared to check if he had one, anyway. They'd simply hustle him off on sight. Still, it was the closest spot to Mike's home where he felt comfortable playing, so he set up shop on the first bench that caught his eye. It wasn't long before he found himself working on various arrangements– "Dink's Song," "Scarborough Fair," "The Parting Glass."

It wasn't really _performing, _Mike realized as he fiddled with his guitar, stopping every now and then to jot down an idea that had struck him. Nothing about which the cops could nag him. He was just _playing, _throwing ideas at a wall and seeing what stuck. Arranging was a difficult practice, especially with only one instrument present. In Mike's head, mandolin danced around the guitar's steady rhythm, while a bass guitar held down the fort. But he didn't have nearly enough fingers on each hand to bring his wild ideas to life. From time to time, a curse slipped from his mouth as he hit the wrong string, caught in a grandiose, all-too-ambitious riff.

After a good half an hour or so, movement in the corner of Mike's eye caught his attention. He glanced over to see two young boys idly watching him. One approached, concealing something within his fist. "Hey."

"Hey."

"D'you take requests?" The boy opened his fist to show a nickel in it. He gazed expectantly at Mike, and Mike's hands gripped his guitar's neck.

_That depends, _he wanted to say. _How much are you paying? _But asking for more money seemed tasteless. This wasn't his livelihood, after all– this was just a way to spend his day off.

"What do you want to hear?" Mike asked.

The boy shifted his weight. "'Danny Boy?' My mom loves that one."

Mike glanced around. He spied a woman standing off to the side, talking to a street vendor, and felt like chuckling. _Kid, you have no idea. _"Sure." Carefully, Mike positioned his hands on the strings, and began to sing.

_"Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling. From glen to glen, and down the mountainside…"_

It had been years since Mike had sung "Danny Boy" in public– not since partaking in singalongs with his family, come to think of it. Over time he'd grown weary of the song, so typical it was to hear at family gatherings. However, as he sang on the park bench with two skeptical boys and one surprised mother watching over him, not a single thought of his own family crossed his mind. His eyes fell closed as he envisioned the rolling green hills of a land he'd never seen, and the grieving form of a woman hunched over her son's grave.

The applause from his makeshift audience startled Mike into opening his eyes. Each face beamed at him, pleased with the result of the request. Mike smiled, trying not to avert his gaze. "Thank you."

"Thank _you!" _the woman exclaimed, with such gusto that Mike was taken aback. "That was beautiful. Say, what are you doing out here on the streets, anyway?"

Mike shrugged, hoping that his face wasn't glowing red. "I take whatever stage I can get, ma'am." Emboldened by the positive response, he began to strum another chord. "You want to hear more?"

"Of course." The woman nodded, before waving to someone behind Mike's back. Presumably she was calling over more spectators. Now it was even harder to stop Mike's face from flushing, but he did his best to ignore the company. _Let's see. What's another crowd-pleaser… _The perfect song came to him in no time.

_"Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you. Away, you rolling river…"_

From behind Mike, the scuffle of footsteps reached his ears, curious people approaching to watch the folksinger who took requests. Determined not to let them distract him, Mike closed his eyes, but he soon found that he didn't need to make the effort. The song, which had been one of his favorites as a child, buoyed him up until he felt that he was the one riding the mighty Missouri River, crossing miles of water to return to chief Shenandoah's lovely daughter. He dug deep into his soul, growling out the words one moment and sending them booming through the still air the next.

_"Away, I'm bound away… Across the wide Missouri."_

Once again, the sound of applause brought Mike back to himself, but this time it was amplified. He opened his eyes and grinned shyly at those who had gathered, amazed at the size of his audience. Three men had come around to watch him sing. One leaned close enough to the woman that Mike assumed he must be the boys' father. One resembled the father closely enough to be his brother. But the last man didn't seem to have anything to do with the family. Appearing to be no older than Mike, he stood apart from the rest, his dark, sleepy eyes fixated on the instrument in Mike's hands. A quiet sense of curiosity stirred in Mike. Out of all six, this man was the only spectator who didn't seem like a square.

"Thank you," Mike announced warmly. "My name's Mike Timlin." With a dash of playfulness, he felt inspired to add, "I'll be here all week, folks!" _When I'm not packing your groceries, that is._

The couple let out a cheerful chuckle, both reaching simultaneously into their pockets. Confusion spiked through Mike and turned to bewilderment as both dug up dollar bills. They laid them in the guitar case at Mike's feet, and Mike couldn't help but stare. He hadn't been asking for money– hadn't even been busking in the first place. And yet, these people believed he deserved payment?

His gaze swept the small crowd, landing again on the young man who didn't fit in with the others. As soon as their eyes met, the man held his palms out in an awkward gesture of apology. "I got nothing."

Mike shrugged. _Good, because I wasn't asking for anything. _"Your attention's more than enough." Eager to break the spell he had unintentionally cast, he lifted his guitar from around his neck. The assortment of gathered people began to disperse, as if Mike had disappeared before their very eyes. _One minute you're a shining star, and the next, you're just like everyone else. _However, as Mike leaned over to return his guitar to its case, he noticed that the young man was still standing over him, hovering at the edges of his vision. A sense of bemused satisfaction crept through him. _How'd I know he was going to stay?_

It took a few moments for the man to find his voice, whereupon he interrupted Mike in the process of removing his wallet. "You sounded great."

"Thanks," Mike laughed. _Two singles and a nickel… Not bad, not bad. Could be better, but… not bad. _Especially considering he hadn't asked for any of it. He folded the bills up and slipped them inside his wallet, before giving the man his undivided attention. Up close, his dark brown irises sparkled in the sun. His olive-toned skin and thick black curls suggested an Italian or perhaps Greek background, and the shabby state of his clothes indicated that he was part of the working class. _Either that, or the non-working class, like me. _A growing suspicion dawned on Mike that maybe he shared more similarities with this man.

"You really play here every day?" the man said, offering another clue. _He's either a folksinger, or he's really obsessed with live music._

"Not _every_ day," Mike admitted. He picked up his guitar case and rose to his full height, towering over the man. "Not always here, either. I've played all over the Village- any bench or sidewalk that'll have me." The confidence in his words left him smirking. "Sounds pretty impressive when taken out of context."

"Yeah," the man muttered under his breath. "Real impressive." Mike wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or not, until he offered a hand.

"Llewyn Davis. I'm a musician too."

_Score! _So the man– Llewyn– was a musician after all. His name didn't sound very Italian, though, so perhaps Mike was wrong on that count. _Maybe it's Greek. _He'd never known any Greek names, besides those from mythology.

"You don't say." Mike cocked his head to the side, taking in every aspect of Llewyn. Patches on his jeans, drowsy expression, a thin layer of stubble gracing his chin… Llewyn fit the image so well that Mike wanted to doubt his perception. Instead, he casually drawled, "Hang on, let me guess. You're just like me."

"Uh—" Llewyn blurted. "Sorry, I—?"

"Guitar and vocals," Mike clarified. A small smile tugged at his lips, as Llewyn's flustered gestures endeared him. He gestured to the guitar case at his feet. "You play, and you also sing?"

"Ah… yeah," Llewyn said, clearly not expecting Mike to have read him so well. His hand flew to his face, stroking his cheek as he awkwardly eyed the sidewalk. "You're right. Just like you." He gave a nervous chuckle. "How'd you…?"

"Oh, you just struck me as the type," Mike replied. Hoping he hadn't unnerved Llewyn _too _much, and trying not to come on too strong, he added, "Not to mention I saw the way you were looking at my Gibson. Figured someone so absorbed wasn't just hooked on the tunes." His voice grew hushed as his thoughts turned onto his favorite instrument. When he spoke, his love for it was palpable. "She's a beauty, isn't she?"

"It's gorgeous," Llewyn agreed. Despite himself, Mike's grin grew wider on his face. "Would you believe I picked 'er up at a garage sale out in Sayville? Hardly needed any restoring, too…"

Llewyn nodded vaguely, and Mike let the thread of a conversation dangle in the air before dropping it. He was more interested in discussing Llewyn's life than his own. After so many Sundays spent at Washington Square Park, he'd come to recognize nearly every face at the folksinger gatherings. He even knew a few players who were part of the wider jazz and popular music scenes. But he could have sworn he'd never seen Llewyn before. _Would have remembered a name like that._

"You ever play around here, Llewyn?"

Llewyn's eyes flashed up to meet Mike's, his response stiff and unpracticed. "No… not yet. I've been away, and… well, I kind of just got settled. Haven't really had the time to look for gigs."

Mike nodded. _Figures. _He stepped closer to Llewyn, and Llewyn didn't back away. "Well, if you ever get the chance, I'd like to hear ya. Maybe you could come out here and join me sometime." The words surprised Mike as they left his mouth. He wasn't used to being so forward, not with a complete stranger. But as an experienced street performer, his heart went out to Llewyn, who'd never once interacted with the music scene. Sincerely, he continued, "Together, we could both get some experience. I'll show you all the best spots to sing in the Village- the ones with free admission." He waited for Llewyn's eyes to shine in recognition of the joke, before proceeding with the most important question. "What kind of music do you play?"

"Uh…" Llewyn mumbled. "Folk songs."

The answer ignited Mike's heart. _Folk songs! _He'd suspected, but needed Llewyn to verbally confirm what he already knew. His mind began to race, conjuring up ways in which this serendipitous meeting could work out in his favor. Before he knew it, he had blurted it out. "What d'ya know? Same here. Would you be down to collaborate sometime?"

At first Mike thought he'd moved too fast, but in one second, Llewyn's face brightened. Genuine interest infused his voice, his eyes losing their deadened stupor. _"Yeah, _I'd be down for sure."

_Yes. _Mike fought to keep from grinning too hard. _Yes, yes. _"Tell ya what." Rapidly he slid his hands into his pockets, rummaging around until he had unearthed a pad of paper and a pencil. "If it's not too much to ask, why don't you come to my apartment sometime?" He wrote down his address as if he expected it to fly from the page. "We'll jam together." Ripping the page off, Mike held it out to Llewyn. "Tomorrow at noon would work, if you're not doing anything."

The enthusiasm that had filled Llewyn's face upon being asked to collaborate now radiated from his entire being. He took the offered page with a dry chuckle. "Yeah, sounds great."

"Great," Mike said. "See you then." He lifted his guitar case and, with a sly backwards glance, took off down the street, back to where his apartment lay waiting. With every step, he felt the weariness he'd inherited from his job and his remote anxieties over the future begin to slide away.

Who knew if it would work out with Llewyn. Mike still couldn't believe he'd recruited him right off the street, without even hearing him play a note. Maybe he was a dreadful musician, or a cold-hearted person. Mike had no idea. But he might be the perfect partner for whom Mike was searching, and tomorrow at noon, he would find out.


	5. Chapter 5

Music spilled into the air from Mike's record player, and mentally, Mike spilled along with it. He imagined himself flowing from the spout of a teapot into a jumbled puddle. Lying with his head hanging upside down over the armrest of his easy chair– a recent lucky score from street-side charity– the world didn't look much different. Just… hazier, unfocused. But maybe that was the reefer. Mike slowly exhaled a stream of smoke and studied his joint with quiet interest. The world didn't _feel _much different when he was smoking, either. More relaxed, certainly. Less urgent. The pot seemed to have quenched Mike's desire to fill every spare moment with mind-numbing activity. But the good times wouldn't last all night. Frankly Mike was surprised he had lasted _this _long without the blues knocking at his door.

He pushed aside thoughts of his impending crash to Earth by focusing his gaze on Llewyn. Llewyn was stretched out on the sofa, his hands folded on his stomach, eyes rolled up to the ceiling. His smile came softly and easily, as if he'd forgotten he had company. No… scratch that, Llewyn was _Mike's _guest. Of course. It was for that very reason that Llewyn had produced the pot once their practice session wrapped up, which now seemed like ages ago. As he'd put it, fortune had smiled upon him, but he couldn't go home to smoke for some reason, so he'd asked Mike to join him. One hit sent Mike reeling back to his first reefer experience, sitting in the backseat of a sun-drenched car beside a man with whom he would grow to regret associating. But the memories were pure, painless, and Llewyn struck him as better company, though he hadn't known Llewyn nearly as long. And so they'd ended up here, lounging across the furniture and spinning some record that Mike had chosen at random. _There's a first time for everything, _he thought drowsily. First joint smoked in the apartment, and first record played. Though this wasn't his first practice session with Llewyn. Two weeks after their fortuitous meeting at the park, Mike was beginning to think he'd found what he was looking for. With his talent, and prickly but astute personality, Llewyn had more than proven himself.

"Who're you living with?" Mike said suddenly, realizing that Llewyn's story didn't make sense. Why _wasn't _Llewyn able to smoke at home?

"Huh?" Llewyn replied, turning his head to Mike as if surprised to see him there. Mike's neck was beginning to hurt, so he let his head dangle, effectively blocking Llewyn from view.

"Who're you living with, and how come they've got a stick up their ass so they won't let you smoke a joint under your own roof?"

"Oh." Llewyn busted up in laughter, and Mike marveled at the rare sound. Llewyn wasn't _depressing, _really, but he could be… intense. Though he joked often, he hardly ever delivered the punchline with a smile. Mike wasn't sure if he was still figuring out how to size Mike up, or if perhaps he had suffered a loss, or had his heart broken, or was even under the sway of Mike's blues. So far, Mike had learned very little about his would-be singing partner, besides the fact that he'd been playing since childhood and had recently ended a trip in the merchant marine.

"It's not my roof. It's Joy's." A hand appeared in Mike's field of vision, its fingers grasping imploringly. Mike twisted around to hand over the joint.

"Your girlfriend?" _Odd that Llewyn wouldn't mention…_

"My sister," Llewyn said. "My sister and her sorry shitbag excuse for a husband, and their little boy who's only what, a year old and already hates my guts." He sighed and languidly raised the joint to his lips.

"How come you live with them?" Based on how often Llewyn prolonged their practice hours, and how he always seemed to be staggering in from some far-flung place, Mike had assumed that Llewyn didn't have his own apartment. But his imagination had conjured up roommates, not _family._

Llewyn paused to inhale before failing to answer. "Jeez, if I knew I'd tell you. I…" He appeared to be on the verge of opening up, but at the last second he swallowed his words and glanced ruefully down at his guitar case. Mike followed the glance as best he could, and nodded in silence. _We didn't pick the most lucrative profession, for sure. _

"Got any other siblings?" he asked Llewyn, just to keep the conversation moving. He also couldn't help his intrigue. The only personal details they'd shared with each other were in passing, before moving on to finer details such as what chords went where at which time and why. "Maybe you could stay with one of 'em."

Llewyn snorted. "Look, if I really wanted to stay with family I'd hike back up to Brooklyn and move in with my old man. And he'd just give me hell for trading in my sea legs, so between him and Joy, I'll take my chances with the crying baby."

Mike nodded, his mind igniting at the mention of Llewyn's father. In the blink of an eye, tantalizing scraps were uniting to form a broad picture of Llewyn, of what his life had been before he packed up for the Village.

"So what brought you to this place?" he asked, as Llewyn reached over to pass the joint back. "I don't mean this room, I mean… I mean, you're not one of those artsy fartsy hipster types, right?"

"Hey, watch it with the stereotypes," Llewyn protested. "You and I both know there's more to it than that."

"Yeah?" Mike took a hit from the joint. "What's there for you?"

"Oh, I don't know." Llewyn paused to study the ceiling, as if puzzling out its mysteries. "Folks in the boroughs always made out to be some sorta… well, I guess it _was_ supposed to be all artsy fartsy hipster. The New Bohemia." He over-pronounced the name, leaving Mike stifling his giggles. "You wouldn't believe the letdown when I got here and found out it looks just like fucking Brooklyn."

At that, Mike couldn't keep the laughter at bay. "Aw, c'mon! It's so… peaceful, and quiet here. Nothing like fucking _Brooklyn_."

"Peace and quiet?" Llewyn laughed. "What have you been smoking?"

Silently, Mike held up his joint, and they cracked up again together.

The turntable's needle chose that moment to disengage from the record, and Mike sprang up to flip the record over. Words leapt out at him from the other side– "Autumn in New York," "How Deep is the Ocean." _Ah, yes_. Now he remembered what he was playing– Billie Holiday's latest. Mike set the needle down on the first groove and listened as the singer's ruined voice poured around him.

From somewhere behind him, Llewyn piped up in surprised recognition. "Lady Day." Evidently he'd also forgotten what they were listening to.

"Yes." Deep-seated, wordless pleasure rose up inside Mike. "God, she's amazing. If she ever comes back to the Village, I'm getting front row seats."

"Huh." The music appeared to have piqued Llewyn's interest, rousing him from his sedentary stupor. "Wouldn't have pegged you as a jazz guy. I mean, considering the stuff we've played…"

Mike shrugged. "All I can really do with it is listen. You know, since I first heard jazz I wanted to play it really badly. And, well, I do."

Llewyn guffawed at the old joke, struggling to catch his breath as Mike settled back down into his chair. "And then you went acoustic and never looked back."

"Nah, I grew up on acoustic. Jazz was my rebellious phase." Mike smirked, though the memories weren't exactly funny. "I mean, you're lucky it was just you and your sister growing up. Try being the oldest of five. Everyone expects you to turn out picture-perfect so you can set an example for the rest."

Before Mike fully comprehended what he had said, Llewyn responded in interest. "And that's why you turned to jazz? To disappoint your folks?" He propped himself up on his elbow, his expression too penetrating for Mike's liking. This was his _life story _he was laying out before Llewyn– personal facts that Llewyn might not even give a shit about.

"Sure, when you put it that way." _Plus the music is good. _Mike looked away, watching the record spin and zeroing in on the notes that lingered in the air like dust motes. _Just look how I turned out… _The thought suddenly struck Mike as funny, and he began to laugh at himself. By his own standards, he was doing just fine with his life. It was his parents who wouldn't agree, who'd probably shield their children's eyes if they could catch a glimpse of what Mike was up to…

Fortunately Llewyn was too high to ask what Mike found so funny. He simply cracked a grin, which set Mike off again. But the laughter quickly died down when Llewyn said, "Yeah, well, my folks weren't such a picnic, either."

"Yeah?" Briefly Mike wondered how they'd gotten onto this subject, but he abandoned the thought, eager for Llewyn to elaborate. After a moment of silence, Llewyn sighed and flopped back down on the couch.

"They fought a lot. And they weren't shy about it. My dad, he'd call Mom out for doing something he didn't like when me and Joy were sitting right there. They loved us and all, but they argued about every damn thing." A sour note crept into Llewyn's voice. "I guess that's where Joy got the idea that it's all right for some sick bastard to push her around. At least _he's _got the good sense not to do it in front of the kid."

Perhaps aware of how bleak the subject had gotten, Llewyn chuckled. Bewildered, but eager to get onto lighter topics, Mike returned his grin.

"When I think about it," Llewyn announced, "there's only one memory that sticks out when my parents were really happy. And not just faking it, like they did on Christmas or Easter or whatever. My mom was trying to remember some old song, and Dad helped her, and they started singing…" Llewyn cleared his throat, before breaking into a rough, spontaneous melody. _"Let's all go down to Maryanne's, and play a piece upon the pianola! Always something nice waiting on the ice. You never have to ask for a drink of Coca-Cola! Her front door is never, ever locked. You never know what time it is– the hands are off the clock. And we won't get home until morning, down at Maryanne's."_

He smiled at the memory, but this time it was a knowing, performative smirk, worn because he knew Mike was watching him.

"They were singing in perfect unison, and they kept eyeing each other and all that," he said. "Kind of makes you think."

Mike waited for Llewyn to explain what this made him think of, but Llewyn's eyes dulled and Mike realized he'd had enough of talking. He looked up at the ceiling and took a hit from the joint, just as a new song began.

_How much do I love you?_

_ I'll tell you no lie_

_ How deep is the ocean?_

_ How high is the sky?_

"So that's when you took off to join the circus?" he muttered.

Llewyn laughed. "No, I took off to join the merchant marine. _You _joined the circus."

_You mean Greenwich Village? _The two weren't exactly synonymous, but Mike couldn't think of anything more fitting. _A place for all the freaks out there like me._

"I had to," he murmured dreamily, watching smoke curl upwards and dissipate. "With folks like mine…"

At once Mike froze, plainly aware of what he was saying. He tried to decide if he should drop the conversation, or if Llewyn would notice if he didn't complete his sentence. _Llewyn doesn't need to know all that crap, and besides, he wouldn't understand to begin with…_

But to Mike's dismay, Llewyn caught the way his words trailed into nothingness. "Yeah? They can't be any worse than _mine."_

Mike swallowed, hoping the pot would calm him down. He could tell Llewyn it was nothing, or he didn't want to talk about it, or whatever… But Llewyn had just opened up about his own family. Was it fair for Mike to hold back on the same subject?

"They didn't really fight," he said quietly, emotionlessly. _Just feel nothing and you'll be fine. _"Might have been better if they did, actually. My mother was always trying to pretend everything was just fine, just fine, when… it wasn't, really."

Mike waited a moment, to see if Llewyn would dig deeper, but all was silent from the couch. Llewyn wasn't looking at him, and Mike wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.

"I thought… I mean, you'd expect things to get better once I went to college, right?" he mused. "Finally, I was doing something to make the family proud. Here in the city, they couldn't control or complain. But it kept getting worse and worse, every time I went back home…" Mike realized with a jolt that the room was spinning. When had that started? He tried to breathe deeply, focusing on the joint in his hand. "Last year, on my birthday, I went out to buy this mandolin I'd been saving up for. I thought when they heard me play it, they'd come around, you know? But the way they reacted…" Mike shook his head, trying to stop the unpleasant memories from spilling over him. "God, they acted like I'd bought myself a gun and told them I wanted to be a professional murderer."

From the couch, Llewyn snorted with laughter. "What? You don't expect a guy to be a— a _virtuoso _on that thing the moment he touches it. They kicked you out for _that?"_

Mike realized that Llewyn was attempting a joke, but a small blaze of anger rose in him, breaking through the remnants of his high. "_I'm _the one who left, Llew. I wasn't going to put up with their meddling, and criticizing, and— and their _bullshit _anymore! They're like race horses wearing blinders or something. Smartest thing I ever did was leave Long fucking Island."

At first, Billie Holiday's voice was all that met Mike's outburst. He couldn't help but nervously shift his gaze to Llewyn, wondering if perhaps he'd startled him. But Llewyn only lay passively, returning Mike's gaze with a touch of regret.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he murmured. "I was just joking, I didn't mean anything…" The tone was implicit in his voice– _I understand._

_ Except he doesn't, not really…_

"No, _I'm_ sorry," Mike mumbled. "I— don't know why I told you all that." 

"Whatever." Mercifully, Llewyn looked away. "Christ, look at us. Swapping stories about our troubled childhood as if it explains half of all this shit."

"What shit?" Mike said.

In the blink of an eye, Llewyn's guard had returned. "Forget it." He reached for the joint, his fingers brushing Mike's for a second as he took it away, before hauling it to his lips for one last hit. Once Llewyn was satisfied, he tossed the remains of his joint into the ashtray on the coffee table, before curling up on the couch. Mike leaned back, draping his arms over the armrests.

"Y'know, Mikey… you don't have to worry so much about what your folks think," Llewyn murmured. His eyelids were fluttering, and Mike didn't have the heart or the will to insist that he get up, that he wasn't allowed to fall asleep at Mike's place. "I'm sure you play the hell out of that damn mandolin." His eyes closed, he mimed a rapid riff on an invisible instrument, snickering to himself. "But I'm glad you're here, anyway. I don't know what I'd be doing right now if we hadn't met."

_You'd probably still be high as a kite, _Mike wanted to jab, but the reference to his parents left him cold. He stared intensely at Llewyn, trying desperately to muster up a "thank you," but as soon as the words formed on his lips, he noticed that Llewyn's breathing had evened out. He'd fallen asleep, right there and then, without a second thought as to what he had said.

Mike continued to watch Llewyn's peaceful face as the record played its last and the reefer slowly wore off. His eyes traced every line of his skin, which had softened in repose, aging him five years backwards. Only the sound of the lifting needle shook Mike from his dream. When he got up to put the record away, he found that he was shaking his head along with it. His heart was pounding so loud he thought it might wake Llewyn up.

_Jesus Christ. _The guy paid him one compliment, and already he was thinking… _No. _He couldn't afford to let his mind go there. Not after what happened last time. Not after Sebastian. _Thought they told us in Sunday school to resist temptation. _Not that he'd ever succeeded in doing so.

Sighing, Mike crawled back to the armchair and jostled into a comfortable position. If he was so afraid to form a partnership with Llewyn, the best thing to do was stay away. But he hadn't gotten anywhere on his own– Llewyn was potentially his best career move. And now that they'd shared their life stories, Mike couldn't imagine cutting him off. He felt drawn to Llewyn, for better or for worse.

A wave of certainty surged in Mike's chest. Was he really _that _desperate to be loved? He'd had plenty of friendships that never turned into anything more. Of course, the romantic preferences of said friends might have had something to do with it, but– _but whatever. _It would be fine. _He _would be fine.

He had to be.

_Just don't ever make me fall in love again, _he thought lazily toward the God he wasn't sure he still believed in, right before drowsiness swept in and spirited him away.


	6. Chapter 6

_1955_

The interior of Ann's 440 felt like the inside of a corked bottle, muffled and waiting for the precise moment to burst open and spill forth. A couple low murmurs rumbled across the room, but many faces were turned rapturously toward the stage, hanging on every word that tonight's poet had to offer. Garbed in a gray suit and a dark fedora, and clutching a sheaf of papers in his hand, the man spoke with a rhythm all his own, each syllable resounding like the tap of a hammer against an anvil.

If it was a good show, Mike had no way of knowing. He hadn't been able to concentrate since arriving. Every now and then he broke the pattern of upturned faces by checking over his shoulder, staring at the door as if his concentration could burn it down. Jean had promised that she and Jim would come down to see the show, and she had no reason to bail at the last minute. Even Sam and Lowell were already here. Maybe Mike hadn't been clear when he'd relayed the performance's projected time slot. Maybe Jean had assumed that was when the poet began reading. After all, he was closest to a headliner that this show had. Mike and Llewyn's presence was completely irrelevant to the audience, but Mike still hoped that their performance would move someone. In one way or another, they had to be heard.

Attempting to calm the excited flutter in his chest, Mike glanced to his left to see how Llewyn was faring. With a cigarette between his lips, and a glazed expression, Llewyn didn't seem nearly as anxious as Mike. But his arms were protectively folded across his chest. It was hard to tell if he was actually listening to the poet, or if he thought the whole thing was a load of self-admiring shit. Knowing Llewyn, it was likely the latter, but Mike couldn't be certain. He wondered if Llewyn wasn't nervous because he hadn't invited anyone to the show. If he made any mistakes, he wouldn't hear about it immediately the next day. But Mike dismissed the idea, because Llewyn hadn't ever gotten a gig before. If he wasn't nervous, he also wasn't human.

Eventually the poet stepped back from the microphone, his hooded eyes dark with suavity, and the audience snapped their fingers appropriately. Mechanically Mike joined them, but his gaze swept the room, seeking out the proprietor of the bar. When he found him, he waited for him to meet Mike's gaze and nod, before bending over to open his instrument case. "It's time," he said to Llewyn, just loud enough for no one else to hear him. "We're up."

"Ah, thank God." Llewyn stubbed out his cigarette and stood, picking up his guitar case. "I thought that guy would go on forever." He opened the case and took out his guitar, fondly running his finger along its neck before shoving a capo and a pick in his pocket. "I bet the roof could have collapsed and he'd still be going at it. Talk about fiddling while Rome burns."

Mike snorted as he picked up his own guitar, followed by his mandolin case. Llewyn was unusually verbose tonight, and Mike suspected the deluge of words was a by-product of nerves. He approached the side of the stage and scanned the audience one last time as the poet thanked the crowd and prepared to make his exit. Still no sign of Jean, or Jim for that matter, but he did spot a few familiar faces hanging in the back, people to whom he'd plugged the show last Sunday in Washington Square. Lowell and Sam watched from the bar, both beaming encouragingly, which brought a small smile to Mike's own face. _Good. _He and Llewyn weren't without support.

"Bringing you a set of old folk favorites, here's Mike Timlin and Llewyn Davis," the poet announced. Mike ascended the steps onto the stage, giving the poet a wide berth to conduct his exit. Looking down into the depths of the bar, he smiled brightly, even though the stage lights glared so brightly that he could no longer pick out any individual faces. Well, maybe that was a good thing. _Just like practicing alone in my apartment. _Llewyn staggered onto the stage directly behind Mike, his eyes flickering from side to side as he attempted to scope out the crowd.

Mike checked the strap on his guitar before hoisting it over his shoulders. He searched for a chair or a stool lurking in the shadows at the back of the stage, but there didn't appear to be either. His nerves spiked. _Tough for Llew. _If Llewyn had ever played standing up, Mike had yet to see it. Only two microphones were onstage- the one the poet had been using, and another off to the side that appeared to have been forgotten. Quickly Mike calculated what setup would best reflect their sound. Giving each vocalist a mic seemed logical, but that left the guitars unheard… In that case there was only one natural response. Mike went to the second microphone and moved it to the center, before adjusting it so that it was pointing in the direction of his guitar. Beside the vocal mic, he laid his mandolin case. He took care not to waste too much time, in order not to lose the audience's attention before they earned it. _Well, as much attention as they're supposed to give us._

Llewyn hung back behind Mike, his eyes still darting from one side of the stage to the other as if he couldn't believe there was nothing to sit on. His nerves transitioning into concern, Mike stepped away from the microphone and brushed Llewyn's shoulder, murmuring in his ear.

"What's wrong?"

Llewyn gestured vaguely to the foot of the stage where Mike had positioned the microphones, his voice tight beneath a veneer of calm. "They set it up for just one person… Should we wait, or…?"

_No! _Mike shook his head at the suggestion. They'd already gotten onstage; there was no way they could delay the performance.

"Two people can share a mic. I've done it before." He hadn't actually, not like this, but if the words settled Llewyn's anxiety… Mike leaned closer, his words dropping to a whisper. "Close your eyes. We're at my place. You're on the couch, I'm on the coffee table. C'mon." With that, Mike left Llewyn's side, motioning for his partner to follow. He did, albeit tentatively, like a balloon bobbing at the end of a string. After positioning themselves at opposite ends of the microphone, Mike finally addressed the growing murmurs throughout the room.

"Hello." Mike's voice boomed back at him, ricocheting from the walls. Now that he had returned to the foot of the stage, he could see a few faces at the tables closest to the stage peering up at him, but the rest of the audience remained shadowed. Whether they approved or disapproved was unclear, but at least their words had died down. Mike swept his gaze across the room, trying to meet his audience's eyes. "I'm Mike Timlin. This is Llewyn Davis." He gestured to Llewyn, who paused in the act of tuning his guitar to face the crowd with a wide-eyed stare. "We're going to play for you now." He hadn't given much thought to song introductions. Hopefully simplicity would suffice. Positioning his hands on the guitar, Mike nodded to Llewyn beside him. His eyes fixed on Mike's like a lifeline, Llewyn silently counted the rhythm- _one-two-three two-two-three- _and with one breath, they began.

_"Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Remember me to the one who lives there… she once was a true love of mine."_

Hearing the song in close harmony through the bar's speakers was a true experience, completely different from the more natural-sounding acoustics of Mike's apartment. Mike focused intently on balancing the weight of their voices, fully aware that the strength of his voice could overpower Llewyn's. Llewyn seemed to be holding back, relying on the microphone for projection. The blend, however, was impeccable as far as Mike could tell. He'd never imagined that another voice could be so perfectly suited to fit his.

As the second verse began, Mike heard the door above him slam, and glanced over to see what was happening. Had the audience begun to thin already? Were they doing a successful job in clearing out the place? But instead of seeing people leaving, Mike spotted two figures making their way down the spiral stairway. As they settled down at a nearby table, his heart leapt in delight. _Jim and Jean! They made it after all._

The first song ended with a round of polite applause, and after thanking the audience Mike and Llewyn went right into the next one. Now that they'd gotten over the hump of the first song, the rest was sure to be smooth sailing. Mike closed his eyes and surrendered to a warm glow of joy, filling him from head to toe. He'd cautiously held it at bay for the first song, but now that the rest of his friends were here and the act had received a good reception, Mike was prepared to loosen up and show the crowd what he and Llewyn had trained themselves to do.

_"My girl, my girl, don't lie to me… Tell me where did you sleep last night? In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don't ever shine. I'll shiver the whole the night through." _Llewyn was singing lead, with Mike chiming in on several lines, which left him greater freedom to move onstage. He grinned widely at the crowd, though the song was a bone-chilling tale and had never made him want to smile before. The intoxication of being onstage and hitting every note precisely made for a strong, heady experience. He didn't even need to look at Llewyn to match his harmonies, instead letting the song itself dictate each beat.

Once "In the Pines" was over and the moderate applause had died out, Mike bent down to free his mandolin from its case. Though it killed him to leave his guitar lying bare on the side of the stage, he didn't want to ruin the momentum by jumping offstage to replace it. Thanking the heavens that the mandolin was in tune, Mike returned to the microphone. "This is our last song. 'Dink's Song.'" He swallowed hard and smiled warmly towards Jean and Jim's table, before nodding to Llewyn to begin the intro he'd taught him. _We're doing this. It's really happening. _Both "Scarborough Fair" and "In the Pines" were self-arranged, but "Dink's Song" was a departure, an arrangement like nothing else Mike had ever written. If the audience accepted this, they could accept the entirety of Mike and Llewyn's performance, and their partnership as a whole.

Llewyn's fingers flew across the strings, and Mike was transfixed. All the weeks they'd spent working out the changes, and finally, Llewyn was playing as if he'd arranged the song himself. So absorbed in his partner's playing, Mike nearly forgot the song's first line, until he saw Llewyn take a preparatory breath.

_"If I had wings, like Noah's dove, I'd fly up the river to the one I love. Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well."_

With the ease of two songs already behind him, Mike found himself swaying back and forth, no longer concentrating on anything but the melody as it was drawn out of him. Gone were the lights, the stage, the audience, the bar itself. There were only Mike, and Llewyn, and two instruments complimenting each other. And soon enough, even those disappeared, until Mike felt he was singing with one voice, one mind. His eyes met Llewyn's, almost as if by accident, and for the rest of the song he found it impossible to look away.

When the solo came up, Mike attacked his mandolin with gusto, his body contorting as the music wrenched forth. He stepped back from the microphone, his head bobbing to the rhythm, and caught Llewyn staring at him wide-eyed. Self-consciousness nearly overtook Mike for a split second, and his motion came to a halt. But then he realized that Llewyn wasn't gawking– he was watching him with _awe. _Boldly, Mike broke into a smile, and Llewyn's face lightened in return.

_"So show us a bird flying high above. Life ain't worth living without the one you love. Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well." _They strummed their instruments in unison, one quick downstroke. "_Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well." _

For a moment Mike and Llewyn stood there, still staring at each other and breathing in time, unable to believe that they'd pulled it off. Then the sound of applause filled the air, and Llewyn broke eye contact, bringing Mike back to himself. Since their set had begun, the crowd had greatly thinned, but a precious few still hung in the back, cheering Mike and Llewyn on. The loudest applause came from a certain table, and Mike gazed fondly at Jim and Jean, the latter of whom had gotten to her feet.

"Thank you," he said into the microphone, after fumbling for his voice. Somehow it seemed daunting to speak, as if he'd forgotten how to do anything but sing. "We're Mike Timlin and Llewyn Davis." He paused, waiting for Llewyn to acknowledge the crowd, before speaking again. "Now on with the show." With that, Mike took his guitar and turned, heading for the steps.

It wasn't until he had descended from the stage, his vision plunging into comfortable darkness, that Mike was able to fully process what had just happened. _We did it. Our live debut. We did it! _He turned at the sound of footsteps, coming face to face with Llewyn. Llewyn was uncharacteristically glowing, as if a flame had been lit inside him and its light shed through his skin. He came forward with a peculiar expression on his face, half dazed and half exhilarated. "Mikey! Did we really—"

_"Fuck _yeah," Mike declared, leaning in to throw his arms around Llewyn. When Llewyn hugged him back, Mike felt tremors running through his skin, remnants of nervous energy that hadn't quite drained away. A few seconds later he remembered that they were both carrying instruments, and drew back as a wave of embarrassment washed over him. He'd never dared to touch Llewyn like that before… but when he caught the satisfied grin on Llewyn's face, seconds before he regained control and pushed it away, Mike knew the gesture wasn't unwelcome.

A smack landed on his shoulder. "Don't ever do that to me _again."_

"Do what?"

"Make me stand the whole time, you son of a bitch!" Llewyn declared. But he was grinning, and the words had no real threat. Mike began to laugh. Now that the show was over and done with, an immense feeling of relaxation began to steal over him.

He moved aside, pulling Llewyn with him, to allow the next performer to take the stage, while fervently searching the rows of tables. Performing "Dink's Song" had been an out-of-body experience, turning both Mike and Llewyn into one organism. He hadn't thought to look for anyone after leaving the stage. But now he noticed a hand in the air, waving him over to the only table that was no longer vacant.

"Come on," Mike said to Llewyn, his heart quickening its pace. "Let's meet my friends." He hastily laid down his guitar and mandolin before surging across the floor, without checking to see if Llewyn was following him. In a flash, Jean's beaming face rose before him, and he fell into her arms.

"Mike! That was fantastic." Jean squeezed Mike once and let go, making way for Jim to hug him too.

"You guys were great! Excellent set!"

"Thank you so much," Mike said, deeply sincere. He couldn't remember ever feeling like this- so high and buoyant, as if he were a helium balloon barely tethered to the earth. "And hey, it looks like we did our job and still got an audience at the same time."

Jim and Jean laughed harmoniously. _They're growing more and more like each other every day, _Mike reflected, noting the angle of their heads and the way their eyes disappeared when they laughed. Beside him, he heard Llewyn cough. "You gonna introduce us, Mike?"

"Sure thing." Mike stepped back and watched as Llewyn, Jean, and Jim surveyed each other. "Llewyn, these are my friends, Jim Berkey and Jean Faber." He rested his hand on Jean's shoulder. "Jean and I go way back. We were at NYU together. Jim's a musician- he plays on sessions at Columbia."

"Really?" Llewyn glanced at Jim with slight interest, but the moment he laid eyes on Jean Mike saw his interest increase tenfold. "Nice to meet ya. Llewyn Davis." He clinically shook Jim's hand before gently reaching for Jean's. "_Enchantee, mademoiselle." _Kissing her hand, he visibly fought the urge to smirk. Jean only withdrew and raised her eyebrows.

"I'm glad your performance didn't stink as bad as that French accent." She threaded her arm through Jim's and smirked back, as if to say, _Two can play at your game. _The humor vanished from Llewyn's face.

"Wait, wha–"

"That's saying it didn't stink at all." Jean turned her knowing smile to Mike, and he smiled back, although he wasn't sure how comfortable he was with Jean taking the piss out of Llewyn right off the bat. Still, the afterglow of the performance hadn't abandoned him, so he said nothing.

"You're telling me." Jim half-laughed, shaking his head. "That was _phenomenal_. Shame we missed the first song, though."

"Aw, it's not a problem," Mike chuckled. "Thanks for showing up."

Llewyn gave a half-hearted shrug. "Not like you missed much. C'mon, let's get something to drink." He turned to the bar and motioned for Mike to follow. Jim nodded eagerly in agreement. "Drinks are on us tonight, Mike! This is a cause for celebration."

"You're too kind," Mike muttered. He checked to make sure his instruments were untouched in their case, when he realized that Llewyn's guitar case still lay by the table, open and unoccupied. Frowning, Mike glanced over to where Llewyn had headed. Llewyn stood at the bar, still clutching his guitar as if he'd forgotten its existence. The sight caused Mike to chuckle fondly. _That Llewyn… _He went to grab Llewyn's case and haul it over to him.

In no time, a cluster of friends surrounded Mike at the bar– Llewyn, Jean, Jim, Lowell, and Sam, the latter two of whom pushed their way over to clap Mike on the shoulder and congratulate him on a show well done. Seduced by the laughter and shared triumph, Mike almost forgot to introduce Llewyn to the newcomers. Not that Llewyn seemed to care much in the first place. He greeted Lowell and Sam politely, but his hands locked tightly around his glass and his eyes showed that he'd rather be somewhere else. As the activity around the bar began to slow down, Mike couldn't help but wonder if anything was wrong. _We just played our first show, for chrissakes, what's Llewyn so moody about?_

"So what's your secret in getting this place to book ya, Mike?" Jim said, drawing Mike back to reality. "It's not a usual venue for a folk duo's debut."

Mike snorted a laugh. "_Now _you tell me. Truth is, they really only wanted us to play here so they could clear the floor faster. If everyone had stayed right where they were at the start of the set, we'd be out of a job!"

Jim laughed, in an uncomfortable way that suggested he didn't think Mike was serious. "Well, if you're ever looking for a serious audience, you could try out one of the hootenannies they're running at that coffeehouse down on MacDougal. And of course we could always use another hand over at Columbia." He smiled, transforming into a businessman before Mike's very eyes. Mike shrugged politely, as he was wont to do whenever Jim brought up the offer. "I'll keep it on my backburner. Now that we're taking off."

"Of course," Jim said. "I wouldn't want to get in the way of your craft." His gaze traveled past Mike and focused on Llewyn, who was sitting one seat over and currently in the process of raising his glass to his lips. Curiosity gleamed in Jim's eyes. "So, Llewyn. Did you go to school around here?"

Taken aback, Llewyn slammed the glass onto the bar. "Ah— no, I went to school where I grew up, back in Brooklyn."

"Oh?" said Jim. "What did you major in?"

"_Oh, _you mean—" Flustered, Llewyn ran his finger along the rim of his glass. "I, uh. I didn't go to college."

"Oh," Jim said again, his voice slightly flat. "Well, where'd you learn to play like that?"

Llewyn chuckled dangerously, his eyes full of a strangely alluring light. "What, you think I had to go to college to learn how to finger-pick?"

"Well, no." Jim sounded as calm as ever, but Mike could tell that Llewyn's bluntness had ruffled him. "The question was unrelated. I'm just curious."

"I can't believe they don't serve fucking liquor here," Jean announced suddenly, rescuing Llewyn from Jim's interrogation. She slid off the bar seat and brushed herself down. "If you want me, I'll be in the can."

"All right, honey." Jim leaned over to peck Jean's cheek, while Llewyn stared sharply. He continued to stare as Jean strolled off and Jim turned around in his seat to watch the next poet take the stage, before leaning over to Mike, speaking quietly into his ear.

"Your friend Jean…"

"She's a character," Mike said fondly, though he suspected Llewyn was about to say something entirely different.

"She's a _looker." _Llewyn rested his elbow on the counter and pressed his hand against his cheek. "And she's with…?" Subtly he gestured to Jim, and Mike gave a discreet nod. "They're engaged, if you can believe it. Not that you can tell from looking."

"Yeah? I didn't see a ring," Llewyn said.

"Exactly. She doesn't like to wear it." Mike reached over to take a sip from his juice, at once wishing not to talk about Jean. Her presence hadn't made the night important. What was important was the show they'd played, and how Llewyn felt about it. Perhaps Llewyn was acting tense and tight-lipped because he'd noticed something onstage Mike hadn't. Maybe the act hadn't gone over as well as Mike had thought…

Llewyn sighed and slid from his seat onto his feet. "I'm going out for a smoke."

Another oddity– as far as Mike knew, Ann's 440 allowed smoking on the premises. He caught Llewyn's arm as he made a move to leave. "You sure they'll let you back in?"

"Yeah," Llewyn said, though he didn't sound very confident. "We performed, right? They're not gonna make us pay to get in." He shook Mike off and headed toward the exit. His departure caught Jim's attention. "Where you going, Llewyn?"

"We're going out," Mike announced. He got to his feet. "Sorry to leave you hanging. We'll be back." Ignoring Llewyn's surprised backwards glance, Mike made his way past the tables and seated patrons to the staircase that led back up to street level. Llewyn reached the entrance before him, and held the door open as an offering for Mike to pass through.

The warm springtime air gave the best greeting Mike could have imagined. At long last, April's fine majesty had returned to New York City, after several bitter months that Mike had thought would never end. He gazed at the busy street, glaring with red and green traffic lights. For once there was no line down the sidewalk– it was too early for folks to come down in search of the next show. At first Mike simply stood in place and drank up the sights and sounds, letting the last of his exhilaration drain away. Now came the steady plateau of calm. Then he turned to Llewyn, who was nonchalantly lighting a cigarette. When he noticed Mike was staring at him, he stared right back, smirking.

"So an Irishman walks out of a bar…"

"Very funny," Mike drawled. He prodded Llewyn's side. "You heard the one about the Italian with the goofy name? Lou N. Davis?"

Llewyn performed a massive eyeroll. "C'mon, Mikey, I've been saving that one. You could at least pretend to laugh."

"Hardee har har," Mike obediently replied. For another moment he stood, savoring the friendly atmosphere and the relative privacy. Then he steeled himself for a pep talk.

"You know it was our job to clear the place. If too many people had hung around and listened, they wouldn't have been able to get folks into the venue fast enough." Mike hesitated, trying to determine if Llewyn would mind, before chancing a pat on the shoulder. "Try not to take it too personally. There's bound to be other places we can play where people will actually stay to hear us."

A wry grin played upon Llewyn's face. He inhaled deeply, sucking down the smoke from his cigarette, before blowing it out again in a stream of words. "Relax. It takes more than that to get me all broken up. As far as shows go I think we did pretty damn good."

_Oh. _Mike leaned back against the brick wall, unable to stop a smile from spreading across his own face. Of course he'd thought the show went over well, but hearing Llewyn agree confirmed it. A small twinge of admonishment went through him. _I wasn't the only one onstage tonight. _He needed to be more attentive to how Llewyn was faring, both onstage and off…

"So nothing's wrong," he said, leaving the words to hang in the air. A simple statement, not a question.

Llewyn paused, his eyes fixed to the wisps of smoke rising from his cigarette. Another twinge went through Mike. So something _was _wrong. He'd worked out that when Llewyn paused before speaking, it usually meant he was reluctant to speak his mind. Mike prepared to give Llewyn a subtle verbal prod, when Llewyn finally answered.

"Actually, yeah, there, uh… there is something… something on my mind."

"Yeah?" Mike turned, angling his body to face Llewyn, who stood in profile. "Anything you'd, uh… like to talk about?"

Llewyn hesitated again, fiddling aimlessly with his cigarette, before sticking it back between his lips. Without looking at Mike, he responded, his words crawling out of his mouth, saturated with shame.

"I got kicked out of Joy and Eric's place today. It was mostly Eric— I think he's tired of having an audience when he messes with Joy. I mean, she was in favor too, after I told her about tonight… Guess she figured one gig means I'm earning a living, right?"

He snorted, in a way that could hardly be construed as laughter, while Mike fought the urge to cut in. _You told her about the show and she still didn't come? _But Mike didn't know Llewyn's entire life. He had no idea what Llewyn's relationship with his sister was like. For all he knew, their parting could be as necessary as his estrangement from his family.

"Anyway," Llewyn said, after a few seconds of awkward silence. He plucked his cigarette from his lips and tapped the ash out onto the sidewalk. "I don't really have a place to go now that the show's over. So, uh… I was kind of thinking…" He glanced over, his words trailing into oblivion. All the same, the question rang in Mike's ears.

He took a moment to mull it over, while Llewyn's gaze nervously flickered away. In his gut, Mike knew that the answer should be _no. _Not when Llewyn had sprung it upon him so suddenly. Not when they'd rarely socialized outside of practice together. Not when Mike still knew so little about Llewyn– perhaps there was a reason his family had kicked him out. He couldn't keep handing out charity, time and time again, and receiving so little in return… The first time he'd done that should have been the last. He couldn't let himself fall to temptation again.

And yet, who was to say that Llewyn would take advantage of him? The situation could have financial benefit now that they were playing shows. Besides, Llewyn deserved to stay with someone who respected him, someone who wouldn't turn him away…

"Come stay with me," Mike said.

Llewyn had been studiously avoiding Mike's gaze, but now he swung his head around so fast Mike was afraid he'd get whiplash. "Really? You want me to?"

Mike laughed. "Jesus, Llew, do you know how impossible it is to pay rent in this city when you live on your own?" _And when your job pays next to nothing… _not that he'd ever admit to Llewyn how he'd been struggling, how tonight's show must have been a gift from the heavens. Surely Llewyn already understood the pitfalls of their mutual chosen profession.

"You don't have to tell _me," _Llewyn groaned. "But, I mean— you really, uh—" He fell silent, either lost for words or trying not to let his sentiments escape. Mike's heart surged in his chest.

"Of _course _I want you to." He put his arm around Llewyn's shoulders, without a second thought. "We're partners now. Through thick and thin."

Llewyn's breath tumbled out in a rush. He slid out from under Mike's arm, and at first Mike was afraid he'd made a wrong move. However, when Llewyn faced him, his glowing expression revealed no sign of anger.

"God, Mike. Thank you so much. You don't know how much this means to me…"

Mike couldn't help but smile. "No trouble at all." At least, he hoped it wasn't.


	7. Chapter 7

Mike had never understood the taboo against going to the cinema alone. Well… okay, he understood to the degree that he knew why it existed. The cinema, as with any kind of public entertainment, was considered a social activity. But when Mike went with a friend, he found it hard to lose himself in the film, instead counting his fellow moviegoer's breaths and anticipating their reactions. So when Llewyn flaked out on Mike's suggestion to go see _Rebel Without a Cause, _it wasn't a huge loss. Completely understandable, too, seeing as they hadn't gotten a gig since that fateful night at Ann's 440. Of course Llewyn wouldn't want to spend his slim savings. On the other hand, Mike had been looking forward to seeing the movie ever since he first caught wind of its existence. And it would do him some good to get out of the apartment. He hadn't been to the cinema since _The Burlyman _came out in 1950, and that night had been spent beside Jean stifling laughter at its dated melodrama. _Rebel Without a Cause, _on the other hand, was supposed to be a modern sort of movie. Surely it couldn't be any worse.

As the theater darkened and the projector whirred, Mike reflected on the aisles of packed bodies before him. How many were here with a date, looking for an easy night out where neither would be forced to do too much talking? And how many had purchased a ticket out of morbid fascination spurred from the lead actor's death, rather than interest in the film itself? Both scenarios struck Mike as painfully impersonal.

That was all he had time to reflect on before the titles played and the man himself appeared onscreen. And with one simple line– "Can I keep it?"– Mike fell in love.

It wasn't necessarily a romantic love, but a strong bond that tethered him to the two-dimensional man in motion before him. Mike watched rapturously, unable to glance away. Emotions writhed within him as the story progressed. He was convinced that he must have seen something like this before, because it was all so familiar— the nagging mother, the passive father, the struggle between one's nature and the desire to be a man. But surely, he'd never experienced a film so profound.

It wasn't until the setting moved to a school, and the young Italian boy from the first scene beamed in the wake of the leading man, that Mike realized where he'd seen this story. It was his life's portrait. At first glance, Mike had fancied the Italian boy as a younger Llewyn, but the instant he caught the way that he stared after Jim Stark, the roles were reversed. Mike's heart plunged into his chest. How could this filmmaker have _known…_

_Oh, boy. Don't fall for him, kid. There's only trouble if you do. He'll hurt you and you'll get nothing in return._

As the movie progressed, so did Mike's astonishment and fascination. So much of it related to his past, and at times, even his present… He found himself at the edge of his seat, helplessly hoping that despite the tragedy he sensed coming, this film would turn out well for Plato and Jim. He'd suspected from the first scene that it wouldn't— it hadn't when he was living it. But for a moment, just a single moment as the boys left the planetarium, he let himself believe that everything would be all right.

Then the headlights went on and the gun was spotted and with a _bang, _the world tilted on its side. The breath rushed sharply into Mike's lungs.

Only when the credits started rolling did Mike notice the ache in his chest, as if he'd been shot instead of Plato. He settled into his seat, suddenly conscious of the various faces surrounding him. The couple to his right were aglow, their faces wreathed in ecstasy as they stared wide-eyed at the screen. But on his left sat a dull-faced man who hardly waited to stand up. The sight struck Mike as obscene. How could anyone witness a film that dug so deep, and not display even a hint of interest?

_Because it's not their life _swiftly became, _Because no one cares about MY life._

The tumult of people leaving the theater pushed Mike out the doors and onto the street. But mentally, he remained riveted to the screen. The faces and names of actors blurred together in his mind, superimposing themselves upon his vision. The tension in his body hadn't left, and Mike breathed a slow sigh.

_Why did it have to end that way? _A happy ending wouldn't have been true to his experience– but that was what the movies were for, weren't they? Movies were fantasy, not realism. And in a fantasy, a boy like Plato wouldn't have to suffer just to teach Jim a lesson about being a man…

Had that been what Sebastian had gotten out of Mike's suffering? Or was he even aware that Mike had suffered from his actions? The inevitable images of Mike's own Jim Stark filled his head, as clear as if they'd met the day before. Remembering him so vividly was disheartening. _Despite my best efforts, he's still with me… _

When he and Sebastian had first begun to spend time with each other, Mike hadn't guessed that their relationship would move beyond what they were to each other at school- much less that it would end in heartbreak. Not on the countless afternoons spent in Sebastian's car passing a joint between them, not when Sebastian had first snuck a kiss and Mike was too startled– or too ashamed– to reciprocate, and not even at the party Mike had stood Jean up for… until the alcohol had kicked him in his mind's eye and the bedroom door locked behind him.

So strange, how such substantial emotion could be wrought from a transitory image made only of color and light. When the room grew bright, the picture faded, as if it was never there in the first place.

Mike zipped up his jacket as the autumn air gnawed at him, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. Sometimes, when Sebastian entered his head, he needed the reminder– _Not everyone is like that. _Not everyone was set on befriending, using, and discarding him so thoroughly. It was just bad luck that he hadn't yet met anyone he trusted enough to fall in love with and not fear the consequences.

His train of thought derailed right as he dared to wonder if Llewyn fit that criteria.


	8. Chapter 8

_1956_

"Hey." Jean's large brown eyes beamed up at Mike from beneath her hood as she moved to quickly kiss him on the cheek. "Well, I'm here. What's the emergency?"

Automatically Mike smiled back, without a second thought, because it was Jean and she was a friend and who _wouldn't _smile at a friend? Jean looked well, warm and vital, with a natural glow about her that wasn't the result of her light makeup. He chalked it up to her status as a newlywed. Getting out of New York City for a week's honeymoon must have proven beneficial, escaping the constant company to spend quality time one-on-one with Jim. For Mike, however, a week had been too long. He was overwhelmed with relief to be in Jean's company. One more minute alone with Llewyn, the air thick with words unspoken that might only be in Mike's head, and he'd have…

"I just couldn't wait to see you," Mike murmured. "Here—" He opened the door to the restaurant, and Jean walked through, letting down her hood and unbuttoning her jacket. A sizable amount of people occupied the restaurant, likely workers on their lunch break. _Definitely a perk of our chosen profession– we can have lunch whenever we feel like it. _And take Sundays off when it suited, assuming no one was in the mood to head to Washington Square. Weaving his way through tables and chairs, Mike hoped no one would see him and Jean at the very back. Not that there was anything _scandalous _about their meeting. He'd never been interested in her that way. At least, he didn't think he had. _How would I know, anyway?_

Once the two were comfortably seated, facing each other at a table near the kitchen, Jean ran her fingers through her ponytail-confined hair and grinned to herself. Mike couldn't help but notice the subtle sparkle of her wedding band. It seemed to throw off the very light with which Jean was infused.

"You won't believe it, but I _missed_ New York," Jean said. "After a week out in paradise I was itching to come back. Guess you can't have too much of a good thing, huh?"

Mike laughed quietly and raised his glass of water in a salute. "Ain't that the truth." Beaming, Jean raised her glass as well, and they both downed a sip.

"So what did you get up to while Jim and I were away?" Jean said. "Did I miss any good shows?"

Even though this was exactly why Mike asked Jean to meet him– to catch her up and, more pressingly, to ask for her advice– he froze, his tongue tripping him. The word slid clumsily from his mouth. "Nah, n– not much." He shrugged and stared into his now seemingly-bottomless glass. "Same old shit as ever."

"Are you talking mediocre shit," Jean said, "or shit that'd impress some gawking tourist who can't tell a B from a B flat?"

"At this point, really, what's the difference?" Mike sighed. "Nothing worth writing home about." He searched uncomfortably for a new topic of conversation. Thanks to the circumstances of Jean's presence, it didn't take him long to find one. "What about you? How was Florida?"

In an instant, Jean's face lit up, like the sun's reappearance from behind gray clouds. "Like Heaven on Earth. _God,_ Mike, if only you could have been there."

"I think Jim would've had something to say about that." Mike hoped Jean didn't notice how tightly he was smirking. But why would she care? He wasn't _jealous _of Jim. Wouldn't have even wanted to invite himself along on their honeymoon, anyway. Life outside New York had always sounded to Mike like a myth.

With no prodding, Jean proceeded to launch into a tale of her week-long exploits, describing the hotel where they had stayed and the restaurants they'd visited and the people with whom they'd mingled. So detailed was her account that Mike was surprised she didn't include a full description of each day's meals and wardrobe. He tried futilely to pay attention, but ended up watching her lips move as his heart resounded in his chest.

_What are you waiting for?_

_ She's here for a reason. Go on, talk._

_ No. _Mike shoved aside the urge to intrude and break the flow of Jean's speech. It wasn't fair of him to expect her undivided attention. She'd just come back from her little romantic getaway– her thoughts were still consumed with Jim and fancy restaurants and long walks on the beach. Besides, how many times had Mike missed half the words from Jean's mouth, due to the million thoughts whirling through his head?

The one-sided conversation had slowed to trickle by the time the waitress came to take their orders. Mike managed a rueful smile. "After all that, you still missed this city?"

Jean nodded emphatically. "You get a… new perspective when you're out there. I mean, it's nice for a getaway, but when you've lived somewhere your whole life… It calls you back after a while. You know?"

Mike nodded, even though he was sure he didn't know. Thoughts of returning to his ancestral homeland, the small, sleepy town out on Long Island from which he had permanently fled, surfaced in his head. _God, has it really been three years? _And what had he been doing since? _Throwing away a half-finished degree, trying a dozen times to break into whatever excuse Greenwich Village has for a music scene, bumming around with some guy you're not sure wants you or not…_

But no matter how bad it got, no matter how often the blues visited him, no matter how many days slipped by without doing anything productive…

No matter what, Mike was not going back to the place that was no longer his home.

"Well, I'm glad it did," he murmured. "Feels like we haven't gone out in forever."

"Mm," Jean said, in a tone that wasn't quite agreement. She played with the fork and spoon that she'd unrolled from her napkin. "Not like this, anyway. Without Jim." Her eyes slid to a spot just beyond Mike's right shoulder, a note of playful derision in her voice. "And Llewyn."

_Llewyn. _Mike swallowed, bracing himself against the flood of warm butterflies that invaded his chest at the mention of the name. _God dammit. _He _wasn't_ in love with Llewyn. Really. He wasn't, and he refused to be. But the name made his heart beat faster.

The errant thought crossed his mind that perhaps this was why Jean got under Llewyn's skin so frequently. If she continued to make fun of him, she would have no time to fall in love with him.

But Jean was with Jim, had always been with Jim. And Llewyn, he was…

Mike swallowed again, realizing that the pounding of his heart might not be the result of hearing Llewyn's name. He stared at Jean, pleading wordlessly for her to look over, to ask what was wrong. Though the fluorescent lights overhead were dim, Jean seemed awash in brightness. It wouldn't be fair to intrude— but she wasn't paying attention to him, and he _had _to—

"I need to tell you something," Mike breathed, leaning in.

Jean's dark eyes flickered to Mike's, the side of her mouth twisting in concern. "Thought you said this wasn't an emergency."

_I didn't actually say that, _Mike wanted to announce. Instead he chuckled quietly and licked his lips, suddenly unsure of what, exactly, he _did _want to say.

Where was he even supposed to _start? _

_Things are fine when I'm alone and I'm out running errands, but when I come back and Llewyn's around I just…_

_ Things aren't really fine when I'm alone, I just can't stop thinking and I wish I could turn off my brain or tear it out of my skull…_

_ I thought everything would improve when he moved in, but nothing's changed, except that there's this guy lounging around my home …_

_ …and I keep catching myself staring at him…_

How would Jean ever understand?

_It doesn't happen often, but sometimes I get so sad it scares me…_

_ I can't write. I can't play. I can't do anything when I feel like this, except count the passing hours, and I just need SOMETHING but I don't know what I need… _

_ We never see each other anymore, and I don't know if it's you or me who doesn't have the time…_

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to her. But when sitting across from each other, eyes locked and souls bared, Mike could see that Jean wasn't really present. If he reached out a hand he could touch her, but though Jean's gaze was pinned directly on Mike, her mind was far away, back with her husband in a cloud of wedding bliss.

_It's funny, Jean, 'cause after all these years, I never told you that—_

"We have a show coming up," Mike said. "Llewyn and I. At the Village Vanguard."

In an instant, Jean's face melted happily, her creased forehead smoothing out. "The _Vanguard? _Please tell me they don't just want you to clear the house."

Mike shrugged, satisfaction lighting his face despite his muddled emotions. "You didn't hear it from me, but word's going around that some big shot A&R men are gonna be at the show. So who knows, if we play our cards right…"

"That's _great,_ Mike," Jean gushed. Amusement stirred in her voice. "You couldn't wait another minute just to tell me that?"

The peeved tone of Jean's word choice took Mike aback, but he didn't react because she'd sounded so friendly when she said it– the way she had talked to Mike back in their old college days. Since she'd met Jim, she no longer reserved her sweetness. _Nothing like that lovey dovey stuff to turn a wildcat into a kitten_.

Foolishness welled in Mike. It was stupid, to have dragged Jean out here expecting to unburden himself like they'd done for each other way back when. Even then, Mike had never fully opened up to her, and now… Now the situation was too complicated, required too many explanations, _and besides_, Mike's mind whispered, _she wouldn't want to hear about it anyway_.

So he shoved his troubles aside and plastered on a smile, pretending to feel happy about the fact that he'd scored a gig. Which, honestly, was something worth feeling happy about. If he worked at maintaining his emotions, it wouldn't take long before they became genuine.

"Couldn't wait. I had to tell you first. God, it was hard to land this one."

Jean blew out a breath through her nose, her eyes hardening. "You're telling _me, _considering the kind of acts that joint's been booking lately." In her gaze, Mike recognized the same vapid, halfway happiness that he was currently trying on. He wondered if she recognized the similarity.

"You're not exactly a swing band, huh."

Memories stirred in Mike's head, turning backwards to the first time that he and Jean had gone out– the night following the party, and Sebastian, and the loss of his innocence… Cozied up at the foot of the stage, he'd forgotten his blues in the wail of a trumpet and the screech of a saxophone. Though Mike had caught several folk shows at the Vanguard, they'd never managed to fill the room with such ecstasy as the big band he'd seen that night had. He and Llewyn were sure to sound lackluster in comparison.

"I dunno about that. I've been working on my bass licks, and Llewyn plays a mean mouth trumpet. You should hear him."

Jean rolled her eyes and gulped down her water. "Well, I'm glad you got the gig."

"Thanks." Mike lifted his glass in the air. "Cheers to all the easily-manipulated club managers out there."

Jean laughed, raising her glass as well. "Cheers indeed." They drank together, and Mike closed his eyes, trying his hardest to preserve the moment, to stretch the seconds into days before it was time to go back to that airless apartment and the all-too-familiar pair of brown eyes waiting there. Trying to forget that he'd lost his best friend.


	9. Chapter 9

_ "You can bury me in some deep valley, for many years where I may lay." _The old, familiar lyrics spilled forth from Mike without restraint._ "And you may learn to love another, while I am sleeping in my grave."_

_ "While he is sleeping in his grave," _Llewyn added as a dreamy afterthought, more focused on tearing into the guitar's strings than delivering the line passionately. As it had taken Mike a couple years to perfectly replicate the riff himself, he knew not to hold it against him. He closed his eyes to belt out the song's final verse.

_ "Maybe your friends think I'm just a stranger, my face you never will see no more. But there is one promise that is given: I'll meet you on God's golden shore."_

Mike opened his eyes to harmonize with Llewyn, cracking a faint grin. _"We'll meet you on God's golden shore."_

For a split second they watched each other quietly, each daring the other to move. Then the applause of their small audience followed.

"Brilliant!" Mitch Gorfein cried. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, while Lillian beamed so brightly that Mike felt he had to squint. Stirred by her cheer, the cat in her lap jumped to the floor and began to lick itself.

"Thanks," Mike said, offering a smile in return. Beside him, Llewyn seemed utterly unaffected. He handed back the guitar he'd borrowed from Mitch. "Here. Thanks for the loan."

"Thank _you _for gracing us with your presence," Lillian enthused. "You know how much we love hearing you sing."

"It's a shame we're going to miss the show," Mitch mused despondently as he took the guitar from Llewyn. "But it was awfully kind of you to offer this… preview."

Mike shrugged. "Hey, no problem. We're happy to do it. Right, Llewyn?"

"Yeah." Llewyn shrunk back against the couch, as if wishing he could sink between its cushions. However, the makeshift performance had left him glowing, and thus any discomfort with the Gorfeins' home and presence was discarded. Mike supposed it hadn't been entirely fair to spring the idea of showcasing their music for the Gorfeins on Llewyn at the last minute. Llewyn had taken a wary mistrust to them the moment he met them, down in a Greenwich Village bar that seemed entirely at odds with their polished, wealthy image. When Mitch had claimed that he and Lillian were out looking for a slice of authentic Greenwich Village culture, Mike had found it difficult to take them seriously, too. But they were kind people, and they didn't judge, and Llewyn trusted Mike enough to agree to his proposal. So far, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Mike, where did you dig up that old tune?" Mitch asked. It struck Mike as strange that the question hadn't been directed at himself and Llewyn, collectively, but he answered without a second thought.

"We learned it from a 1920's recording. Some one-hit-wonder out of Mississippi."

The cat, done licking itself, leapt daintily onto the couch and inserted itself right between Llewyn and Mike. Mike reached to scratch its soft neck, wondering what its name was. This was the first time he had ever visited the Gorfeins, and he had to admit he wasn't surprised in the least. Everything was exactly as he had pictured, right down to the spotless, off-white wallpaper and overflowing bookcase. The cat was only the icing on the cake of predictability.

Llewyn laughed quietly as he ran his fingers through his hair. "You've got to be the biggest music lover I've ever met, Mikey. And I've met myself."

Mike gave an awkward smile as the Gorfeins chuckled cordially. "I dunno. There's a world of difference between being a music lover, and being a musician."

"And we all know who the musicians here are," Lillian declared.

"Yeah." Llewyn jerked his thumb in Mike's direction. "He's sitting right next to me."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short," Mitch soothed. "You boys are both _brimming _with talent. Now, I'm going to put this guitar away, and what do you say to some tikka masala when I come back?"

"Oh—" Mike began. "We don't want to im—"

"I don't know about him," Llewyn interrupted, "but I'd say 'Hello, tikka masala.'" He smirked at Mike, who stopped petting the cat just long enough to flick Llewyn behind the ear.

"Do you even know what that is?" Neither did Mike, as a matter of fact, but he hoped Llewyn wouldn't call bullshit.

Llewyn shrugged. "It sounds like food, which, y'know… that's good enough for me." He glanced to the Gorfeins, seeking approval, and Lillian tittered politely. "Don't worry, we're not sending you off empty-handed. You've sung, and now you've earned your supper."

A couple hours later, Mike and Llewyn headed off towards home with full bellies and hearts. Well, Mike's heart was full, anyway. He couldn't speak for his partner.

"I'm surprised you stuck it out back there."

Llewyn grunted, as if to say _did I have a choice? _"They're not half-bad for academics."

"Right," Mike chuckled. "Those pesky real-world types." He was tempted to add _don't you like anyone, Llew, _but he held his tongue. As more and more time went by, he'd grown increasingly afraid of the unknown answer. Llewyn had friends, sure, but most of them were inherited from Mike. Scratch that– _all _of them were inherited from Mike, minus the occasional women with whom Llewyn usually hooked up for a week or two. And while Llewyn tolerated these people, enough to crack jokes and trade playful barbs with them and thank them for coming to see him perform, he rarely seemed to actively desire their presence. He only specifically enjoyed Mike's company, and Mike had no idea what to make of that.

Mike's gaze traveled from the night sky overhead to the street, awash in light from passing cars. Snatches of passersby's conversation drifted to his ears. All were wrapped in their own inner lives, as rich as the one he shared with Llewyn. Even at night– perhaps _especially _at night– New York City thrived, a million microcosms teeming within its vast ecosystem. When Mike was out in the thick of it, he couldn't help but love it.

Llewyn spoke in a contemplative voice that fit Mike's wavelength entirely. "If we can get through to folks like that, we'll have no trouble playing the Vanguard."

Mike nodded. As the show's date loomed closer and closer, he found himself overwhelmed with myriad emotions. Something about the prospect seemed too good to be true. How had he and Llewyn gotten so lucky? And would that luck eventually run out?

"Let's hope they all like us as much as Mitch and Lillian do," Mike said.

"Yeah, well, you can't please everyone all the time." Llewyn shoved his hands in his pockets. "Except for that guy they're sending from Legacy."

Mike shook his head to avoid traveling down the same mental pathway. "Don't jinx it, Llew. Don't even think about it."

"You getting superstitious on me?" Llewyn mumbled, but the jive had no bite to it. Perhaps he saw that Mike had a point.

Together, Mike and Llewyn traveled beneath the sidewalk, into the belly of the subway system. Mike had never suffered from claustrophobia, but tonight he understood why some did. Deprived from the fresh air above, and surrounded by careless bodies, the platform felt stifling. Mike managed to work his way to the edge and stare down at the murky track below. The sight alleviated his ill feelings. He was glad to hop on the shuttle and take the first empty seat. _Just a few stops, then we'll be back home._

Llewyn settled down beside Mike. He slid his guitar case between his feet and rested his elbows on his knees, propping his head up on his hands. Mike leaned back and sighed, cushioning his feet on his mandolin case. Despite his advice to Llewyn, his swirling thoughts gathered around the mythical A&R man and the promise of a record to be made. The concept filled him with simultaneous joy and apprehension. Getting signed was the chance to reach a wide audience with their voices. Instead of having to trek out to the Village, folks would be able to take Mike and Llewyn home with them and listen in the comfort of their living rooms. They would be _heard– _which translated to validation. Sales of their hypothetical record meant that people outside their circle of friends enjoyed their singing and playing. It meant that Mike's arrangements stood up to those which had been recorded in the past.

Yet when Mike pondered the idea, he couldn't help but worry. On the flipside, the record might not sell at all– and whose fault would that be? The A&R men, for failing to properly promote it; or Mike and Llewyn's, for failing to deliver a record worth buying?

For a moment Mike was ashamed to have let his mind travel down that path. He hadn't dropped out of school to become a musician because he expected to make _money. _But money wasn't the point. Making a record was in an entirely different ballpark. When playing live, Mike opened his heart to the audience and didn't care what they did with it. But playing on a record was to offer that heart on a plate, expecting to have it devoured, or crushed underfoot. _Like it was crushed before. _The thought of drowning in a sea of obscurity was too much to bear.

"God, I'm tired," Llewyn announced as he and Mike wandered off the subway car. Mike yawned as if to emphasize the point. He followed Llewyn up the steps and immediately a blast of warm, muggy air greeted him. Somehow, it was more of a relief than the stale air of the subway. Together, they traveled down the street, passing the buzzing fluorescence of the corner store and pausing only to offer what little change Mike had in his pocket to a homeless person sheltering beneath a storefront. No words were spoken until they'd climbed the steps to their second-floor apartment and turned on the lights inside.

"You gonna stay up for a while?" Mike asked as he headed to the kitchen cabinets, in search of some coffee to brew. Usually he went to bed before Llewyn, but he always found it necessary to ask, in case Llewyn wanted privacy in the main room.

"Sure." Llewyn deposited his guitar on the floor beside the armchair. With abandon, he threw himself down on the couch. "I think I'll just sit around."

Rooting around in the cabinets, Mike discovered a bag of fresh coffee. He pulled it out. "I could put on a record." He turned around just in time to catch Llewyn's noncommittal shrug. It wasn't exactly a yes, but it wasn't a no, either, so after Mike had placed the kettle on the stove burner, he went to the turntable and pulled his latest acquisition from the stack. One needle drop later, and a lively banjo came blaring from the speakers, followed by two women singing in close harmony.

_Wish I was in Bowling Green, sitting in a chair_

_ One arm around my pretty little girl, the other 'round my dear_

_ The other 'round my dear_

_ Bowling Green_

_ Hey, good ol' Bowling Green_

Llewyn cocked his head as Mike retreated from the turntable, an endearing gesture that always proved how hard he was listening. "This is the sister act we saw a while back at that hoot, right?"

"Yeah, the Kossoys." Without a moment's hesitation, Mike plopped down onto the couch beside Llewyn. Ordinarily he'd have taken the armchair, but tonight, something in him needed to be close to Llewyn, to sense his nearby physical presence.

"I didn't know their record was out already." Llewyn listened silently for a few moments, satisfaction radiating through his aloof veneer. "Nice girls. Cute, too."

"Yeah." Mike slumped back, resting his hands on his stomach. Closing his eyes, he let the jaunty music fill him up, until there was nothing inside him but a catchy vocal melody and a smartly-played banjo. Music was the purest sustenance, best enjoyed alone, but he didn't mind adding a partner to the mix. Not when the partner was Llewyn, anyway.

"Llewyn?" he murmured, as the first number faded away and a new song began. "You ever wonder if… well… if there's anything more to life than what we're doing right now?"

"Sure there is," Llewyn cracked. "There's playing shows, seeing friends, buying groceries… oh yeah, and don't forget cleaning the house, doing laundry, blah, blah, blah." He waved his hand idly to encompass a vague sense of life's responsibilities. "I dunno about you, Mikey, but if I spent every day just listening to records, I might lose it."

"That's not what I meant," Mike said, though he couldn't help grinning dryly despite himself. "I…" It was a struggle to put into words what he _did _mean. He didn't feel remotely blue. Why would he dredge up his difficult, self-doubting conflicts, on a night that felt as perfect as it could possibly get?

"I don't know. It's just… weird, when you think about it." A knot settled in Mike's chest as he began to reluctantly, yet earnestly, think about it. "Is this all there is? I get up, I work, I come home, we play, we go out and visit friends and they tell us how good we are. Sometimes, if we're lucky, we have a show. That's it. That's life." Mike's hands joined together and tightened. "That's all."

When Llewyn spoke, a cautious edge had replaced his joking tone. "What more do you need?"

The question stopped Mike in his tracks. He was on the verge of replying– though he wasn't sure what he was going to say– but held back. No matter what response he gave, the question revealed more about Llewyn than the answer would reveal about Mike. Llewyn didn't feel dissatisfied with his life's path. He'd known Mike for two years, had been living with him for only one, and in all that time, Mike had never heard him express one regret. Of course, they fought from time to time, out of frustration when the two were unable to secure a gig, or for pettier reasons related to sharing a living space. But apparently, as far as Llewyn was concerned, this was the best that life had to offer. So why did Mike feel any different?

Maybe it was a result of Llewyn's background. Meeting Mike had been the best excuse not to re-join the merchant marine, or to return to his family. From the way he spoke, even being a starving artist was a preferable lifestyle. But Mike had struggled too, growing up under immense familial pressure, to the point where returning to his hometown would have proven an anathema. All he'd ever wanted to do was sing and play music, and he now spent large portions of his day singing and playing music. What, exactly, was the problem? Why didn't he feel like this was _enough?_

"I don't know," Mike mumbled, staring off into the distance. Sourness swept over him. He shouldn't have tried to bring up heavy subjects when all he'd wanted to do was listen to music. He was ruining the evening's relaxed mood. But now that he'd begun to voice the internal argument he'd been having on-and-off for weeks, he couldn't seem to stop.

"I guess I just… I want what we do to have _meaning, _Llew. I don't want to miss out on any opportunity, any chance for good fortune. We could be doing so much more than what we already are."

"Hey, now," Llewyn said. "Don't drag _me _into this." He peered closely at Mike with a sort of anxious fervor. "I thought we were doing pretty well, I mean… music-wise."

_It's not just the music, _Mike wanted to say. _My whole life deserves a do-over. _But he didn't dare mention that to Llewyn, because he couldn't put his finger on why he felt that way. Llewyn would just laugh at his unjustified emotions. Instead, he latched onto the matter Llewyn had brought up– the music.

"Maybe we're not doing as well as we thought." Mike nodded towards the turntable. "There are _teenagers _out there who've already recorded full albums, and here we are. Bumming around at hootenannies. Getting booked to clear out the clubs. Passing a hat around at bars."

"Are you saying we're not getting anywhere?" Llewyn said sharply. "Mike, we got booked at the _Vanguard. _I didn't see you complaining when we signed their performance contract."

Mike passed a hand along his face, his stomach sinking. Every insecurity that he possessed regarding the Vanguard rose to the surface of his mind. He fought to keep them from passing through his lips. If he hadn't already thoroughly bummed Llewyn out, he'd surely alienate him further.

"I dunno, Llewyn, maybe I'm just being an idiot." Mike exhaled. "I'm sorry." He turned his face away, listening without much emotion to the words of the next song that the Kossoy Sisters had to offer.

_Some bright morning when this life is o'er_

_ I'll fly away_

_ To that home on God's celestial shore_

_ I'll fly away_

Though upbeat, there was something about the lyrics that brought Mike down. He didn't want to dwell on it any further than he had to, but soon enough, his contentedness abandoned him.

"I just… I don't want us to waste our time anymore. I don't want to live with any regrets."

"Yeah, but you…" Llewyn sounded bewildered. "It's not like we're getting too old. I mean, honestly, what would you rather be doing?"

Leaning forward, Mike rested his chin on his hands, hiding his frown. _It all comes back to that, right? _The problem was, he genuinely couldn't think of anything he'd rather do. He had a great apartment in his favorite part of town, and a bustling social life full of friends who cared about him. His reputation as a performer and musician commanded enough respect to justify bookings for large audiences. The only mediocre aspect was the necessity of working at the checkout counter, and of course a record would be nice, but all things considered, Mike was doing well in life. An outsider could hardly find room for improvement.

However, when Mike turned the matter over in his mind, he lit upon an important factor that he hadn't considered when summarizing his life. That factor was Llewyn Davis. Throughout it all, ever since Mike had left college, he'd had a partner beside him to share his trials and tribulations. They'd come a long way from their initial meeting at Washington Square Park, and the promise that Llewyn could help bring Mike's musical arrangements to life. They shared that same apartment, the same bustling social life and the same audiences. If a record was to come, they would surely share that, too. They were the same note, hovering an octave apart.

In Llewyn, Mike had discovered more than just a friend, a moving part of his mental symphony. He'd discovered a _partner- _inseparable, irreplaceable. Without Llewyn, Mike knew he would have never made it to this point. He likely would have caved and returned to Long Island, or shamefully enrolled for a new semester at NYU, had Llewyn not come along and validated him.

So stunned by this revelation, it took Mike a moment to collect his thoughts, but once he did, a burning need to voice them seized him. Turning to Llewyn, Mike let the floodgates burst.

"I couldn't have done _anything _without you, Llewyn. I wouldn't, even if I had a choice. I'm not going to lie and say it's always been sunshine and roses, but… knowing you has made it all worthwhile. There's no one else I'd rather have up on stage with me, even if the stage is just the Gorfeins' living room." For a split-second Mike debated on whether he should shut his mouth, but he'd already gone this far. _Might as well go all the way. _"You're the best friend I've ever had, Llew."

Mike didn't have time to feel ashamed for having been so vulnerable, so fixated was he on Llewyn's response. For his part, Llewyn seemed taken entirely aback. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were prepared to laugh off the compliment, but the urge visibly faded. He sat for an uncomfortably long amount of time, in the silence between tracks on the Kossoy Sisters' record, until his words finally came with the next song.

"…Thank you, Mike." Llewyn sounded as startled as he appeared. His brow furrowed deeply. "You're not fucking with me?"

"Never." Mike held up his right hand. "Every word was the truth. Swear on my mother's grave." Lowering his hand, he delivered an awkward joke in an attempt to dissolve possible tension. "She's not lying in it now, mind ya. Just call it wishful thinking."

Ordinarily Llewyn would have laughed, but he only grunted softly, hardly seeming to process Mike's words. His eyes bore into Mike, searching his face until Mike felt naked beneath his gaze. Suddenly he noticed the angle of Llewyn's body, and how close he was sitting… Every sound drained from the room but the pounding of Mike's heart in his ears. He was frozen, torn between the brazen desire to lean forward and the knowledge that if anything happened, if he made any sudden move, someone was bound to get hurt…

Llewyn moved, and Mike tensed. But Llewyn was no longer focused on him anymore, instead casting a glance toward the stovetop over by the kitchen area. "Hey, Mikey, you know what they say? A watched pot never boils?"

Instantly Mike shot up, grateful for the distraction. He hurried over to the kitchen area as Llewyn continued behind his back. "You think the same goes for tea kettles?"

"Clearly," Mike mumbled, not in the mood for jokes. As he removed the kettle from the burner and grabbed a coffee filter from the counter, he desperately tried not to picture Llewyn behind him. But his mind filled in the images nonetheless, of Llewyn sprawled on the couch, Llewyn putting his hands behind his head, Llewyn returning his attention to the music as if nothing had happened between himself and Mike…

_Nothing DID happen, _Mike told himself. He'd stared at Llewyn for maybe a second longer than he should have. _Yeah, how incriminating. _But his mind churned restlessly with all that he had left unsaid and the urge he hadn't been able to act upon. When viewed in such a way, staring too long was a dangerous act. If Llewyn hadn't pointed out the boiling kettle, he would have… would have…

_I would have KISSED him. _A hopeless sense of despair rose up inside Mike. This was _exactly _the way it had happened with Sebastian. A few conversations before class had led to conversations outside of class, which turned into several social outings and afternoons spent smoking in Sebastian's car… Throughout it all, Mike had developed a deep appreciation for Sebastian's presence, until suddenly Sebastian was kissing him in the back of his car while Mike prayed for forgiveness. It had taken him a shamefully short amount of time to kiss back.

_It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt. _Mike had already been hurt, and if his relationship with Llewyn continued the way it had with Sebastian, he knew history would repeat. But _dammit, _how could he _not _want him? He'd tried denying it for too long. He knew it was wrong, and that he'd suffer for it, but he loved Llewyn, and nothing in the world could have changed that.

If Mike had the choice, he would have stayed away. _Probably would have married Jean back in '53. _But at the same time, the thought of never having loved Llewyn was just as heartbreaking.

Carefully, Mike took his brewed coffee back to the couch, clearing his throat until Llewyn raised his head. "All right, Llew, I think I'm turning in."

"You sure?" Llewyn sat up, confused. "Don't you want to hear the second side?"

"Maybe tomorrow." Mike glanced toward the bedroom. "I'm tired."

"Okay." Llewyn nodded sharply. "I'll see you in the morning."

"G'night." Mike turned and trudged away to his cold, dark room, where he wouldn't have to face Llewyn or hear the music blaring around him. Settling down on the bed, he tried not to reflect on about the feelings he'd just discovered. But Llewyn danced around his head, occupying his every thought until he tumbled quickly into a dreamless sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

_1958_

Springtime in New York always meant new beginnings, and not since college had Mike felt he'd needed one as badly. Career-wise, he had no complaints; in fact, he didn't think he and Llewyn had ever been busier. Folk music was in vogue, and new venues were popping up across the Village like mushrooms after a rainfall. Though Timlin & Davis had already been booked at several of these venues, Mike still found it a novelty to be the center of attention, rather than background noise while servers bussed tables. He'd even accepted a raise at the supermarket, and Llewyn pitched in from time to time with money from various odd jobs he'd agreed to take on. They were scraping by financially, and that was good enough.

The only problem was Llewyn. _What else would it be? _Outwardly, Llewyn was the same uncouth, unfiltered friend he'd always been, but when the two were alone together Mike struggled to keep himself in check. He hardly dared to pay him a compliment that wasn't couched in an insult, so afraid was he that Llewyn would realize what he was hiding. On the rare nights when they weren't holed up at a bar, either playing a show themselves or cheering friends, Mike tended to abandon the apartment and roam. Sometimes he popped in to check out the local scenery, but more often than not he aimlessly explored the streets until his own weariness forced him to turn back. It was pathetic, but at least he didn't have to face Llewyn upon his return, as Llewyn was guaranteed to have fallen asleep by then. Onstage, their chemistry was as heady as it had ever been, but offstage, Mike knew better than to run blindly towards temptation.

The more Mike went out, the more he noticed the attention that others were prone to give him in the bars he haunted, where no one knew his name. It didn't take him long to realize that women weren't the only ones looking his way. Half the time he convinced himself that he was imagining it, that the men sharing space at the bar had only smiled or gestured meaningfully because they were trying to be friendly. But this was New York City. No one concerned themselves specifically with another person's business unless they wanted something from them. Something that Mike wasn't sure he was willing to give. Sometimes, when he'd lost track of time and found himself to be the only figure under glowing streetlamps, his feet carried him toward the meatpacking district, where he'd learned through dropped word that men awaited who were eager to service him. But his disgust grew with every step, until he had to turn back. Mike had never asked for someone to satisfy his deep-seated, sinful desire. He only wanted someone– anyone– to look upon him and love him for who he was, and to unreservedly love them in return. Sebastian, and now Llewyn, had taught Mike that such a thing was too much to ask for. But late at night, wallowing in the beginning stages of the blues, Mike made himself believe that it wasn't.

It was at the end of one such nightly traverse that Mike came home to find Llewyn nowhere in sight. He heard no guitar strumming and no recorded music, nor did he see anyone curled into a ball on the foldout couch. At first, Mike was knocked off-kilter. What had happened to Llewyn? Why had he lit out without a single word—

_Stop it. You're getting ahead of yourself_. Before leaving the apartment, Llewyn had probably written Mike a note. Mike went over to the kitchen area and scoured every surface, but turned up nothing. He stood in place, clenching and unclenching his fists, unsure of what to do. Maybe Llewyn had finally begun to wonder where Mike went at nights. Maybe he'd gone out to track him down, not realizing that Mike had already returned? _What in the world is going on…_

Then Mike caught himself. Why was he so concerned? Llewyn was a grown man who knew his way around the city. He had nothing to fear. Quietly, self-consciously, Mike laughed to himself. _Imagine that. I can't function when the guy's around, but I can't stand it when he's gone. Boy, you're in deep…_

The night had nothing left to offer Mike but a chance for repose. As soon as he was able, Mike crept to his room and slid beneath his sheets. He reached for the notebook that he kept sitting by his bedside and turned on the lamp, ready to jot down any lyrical ideas should they come to him. He hadn't written any new arrangements in a while, and hoped that polishing up his original material would kick-start his creativity.

Mike had just pressed pen to paper when a key in the front door's lock roused him. The pen slipped from his hand, forgotten, as a voice rang from the main room. _Llewyn's back…_

Then a second, distinctly feminine voice answered, and Mike froze. _He's brought company._

Mike had lived with Llewyn long enough to learn that his partner, for all his faults, had a way with certain kinds of women. There had been Lydia, who Llewyn had dumped after she tried to strangle him in his sleep, and Willow, whose insistence that his aura vibrated at the same frequency as hers had spooked Llewyn into calling off the affair, and several more in between whose names Mike had never learned. And there was Jean– always Jean– whose teasing had grown increasingly suggestive of late, not that Llewyn was one to dissuade her. Short-lived as Llewyn's romantic prospects tended to be, Mike couldn't help but wish he shared Llewyn's inclinations. To keep suspicion from rising, he'd been out with a few girls who'd made eyes at him in the bar, each one eager for a stab at a handsome folksinger husband. He'd also allowed Llewyn to believe that his nightly wandering was rooted in salacious activity. However, no matter how sweet and charming the girls were, Mike could never bring himself to take one home. When he wasn't staring at the men who'd brought them to the bar, only to be abruptly abandoned, he was thinking of Llewyn.

This was the first time Llewyn had brought a girl home, into their shared space that Mike had so carefully cultivated. Or… was it the first time? The first time Mike could remember, anyway. He tried to avert his attention from the main room, but the unwanted voices carried through the thin walls. "You want anything?" Llewyn asked. "Another drink, or…?" From his slurred words and unnaturally loud voice, Mike figured another drink was the last thing he needed. He made it a point not to keep alcohol in the house, but he didn't doubt that Llewyn had a stash somewhere.

The girl responded with laughter and a coy purr. "C'mere. I want _you."_

In no time at all, the words dissolved into gentle sighs. Though they were hardly audible, Mike could almost feel each breath on his skin. He lay paralyzed as the sighs became moans of increasing intensity. _Doesn't this beat everything! _The sound wasn't totally unfamiliar– the apartment was small, and Llewyn wasn't as quiet as he liked to think he was– but Mike hadn't realized how talkative Llewyn could become with the addition of a partner.

"Oh, god, you feel so good… oh, yes… yes, keep— keep doing that, _yes…"_

There was nothing Mike wanted more than to stop listening, but he couldn't bring himself to roll over and pull the pillow over his head. He wasn't sure what embarrassed him more– the clarity of the voices from the main room, or the warm flush that had spread over him as a result of hearing them– and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He ached for release, but even as his mind filled with lurid images of Llewyn, his stomach shriveled with shame.

_ I deserve this. _At long last, the God in which Mike no longer believed had retaliated. _I deserve this. I deserve this… I deserve this… _Even when the voices finally quieted from the main room, Mike couldn't seem to fall asleep.

In the morning, Mike found Llewyn snoring on the foldout couch, his mysterious guest having apparently fled into the night. _Well… out of sight, out of mind, _he thought as he put the kettle on and dug out the last of the coffee grounds. He wasn't about to mention what he had heard the night before unless Llewyn said a word– and true to form, Llewyn didn't. At least not that morning.

A week later, Mike was thoroughly surprised when, on their walk to the Gaslight Café to hear Jim and Jean sing, Llewyn announced out of the blue, "Hey, Mike? There's this girl coming to the show— I invited her, and, uh— I'd really like for you to meet her."

Mike glanced sideways at Llewyn, mildly dumbfounded. _Why'd you wait until now to spring this on me? _He wasn't surprised, though, as Llewyn's sense of timing was only decent when it came to playing music.

"Yeah? Is she someone I should know about?" _Someone who could have met me a week ago, when she was at our place? _The unspoken words burned the tip of Mike's tongue like a hot drink, but he bit them back.

"You'll like her, Mike," Llewyn said, absently patting Mike's shoulder. "She's a real nice girl, Diane." He shoved his hands in his pockets and blew out a slow breath, gazing fixedly down at the sidewalk. "That's her name. Diane."

As it happened, Diane had already arrived by the time Mike and Llewyn reached the Gaslight. Mike hadn't been around Llewyn's dates enough to get a sense of Llewn's preferences, but of all the images he'd conjured up on their walk, none of them resembled reality. Diane was small, shorter than Llewyn, with a dark brown bob that framed her round face and heavy eyeliner worn to disguise her age. Despite the effort, Mike saw right away that she was young, probably fresh out of college.

"Hey." Mike offered his hand and Diane smiled shyly, while Llewyn anxiously fidgeted beside her. "I'm Llewyn's singing partner, Mike Timlin. Nice to meet ya."

"The same to you," Diane replied, her voice quiet but friendly. Mike couldn't place her accent– _obviously not a city girl_. "Diane Gallagher. Um… Llewyn told me you went to NYU?"

_Did he? _Mike wasn't sure if he was surprised or flattered that Llewyn had mentioned him in detail. "Yeah, well… I went, but didn't stay." He flashed a polite smile. "I'm guessing you're familiar with it?"

Diane released a burbling laugh. "No kidding! I just graduated a few weeks ago! Came out here from Akron. It was my dream school."

Mike nodded and searched for something more to say. Diane had effectively eliminated the next questions he'd been preparing. Eventually curiosity got the best of him.

"So how'd you meet this son of a gun?" Mike asked, smirking in Llewyn's direction. Llewyn looked as if he wanted to flip Mike off, but the urge to do so couldn't break through his nervous energy.

"He bought me a drink," Diane said, and laughed again. "I was at the Café Rienzi and realized I'd forgotten my purse, when your 'son of a gun' slides in and pays for my coffee." She beamed at Llewyn, her brown eyes warm. In return, Llewyn leaned in close and put his arm around her. Mike was quietly amazed. He'd never seen Llewyn exhibit such affection.

It wasn't long after that the room began to fill up. Though the Gaslight was a relatively new establishment, Jim's connections had enabled him and Jean to play on its opening night, and now they remained in the owner's good graces. Compared to the motley assortment of folks who were more eager to socialize than hear music, Diane seemed incongruous. She was too clean-cut and too soft-spoken. The differences grew even more apparent when Jim and Jean came over to say hello. Mike hadn't paid Jean's smirking cynicism and off-color jokes any mind for as long as he'd known her, but now he wanted to blush on Diane's behalf. Though if Diane was offended, she didn't say a word. In fact, she seemed overjoyed to be at the Gaslight, and Llewyn seemed equally overjoyed to have her hanging on his arm.

"What'd I tell ya, Mike?" Llewyn said once Jim and Jean's set was over, and their group had migrated to the bar for a round of celebratory drinks. "She's nice, isn't she?"

Mike glanced down the bar, to where Diane was eagerly pumping Jim and Jean for information on their music. He nodded without glancing Llewyn's way.

"Somehow… I never figured you went in for _nice._"

"Yeah, well, me either," Llewyn said. "Diane's a special one. There's more to her than meets the eye."

_Apparently so, _Mike thought. As he understood it, nice girls didn't usually sleep with men on their first date.

When Diane wandered back to Llewyn, Mike tried his best to ignore her. He knew it was an impolite, immature move, but he honestly had no idea what to say to her. _Thanks for catching the eye of the man I love? _But why would such a thing bother him? He had no claim on Llewyn, and Llewyn certainly didn't reciprocate his feelings, nor did Mike ever want him to find out. Besides, if it were up to Mike, he wouldn't have feelings for Llewyn in the first place. Still, rationalizations made him no more eager to hold a conversation with Diane.

"Hey, thanks for inviting me, Llewyn," Diane announced as she pulled up a seat. His name sat perfectly on her lips, flowing naturally as if she'd known him all her life. Llewyn smiled so tenderly that it could have broken Mike's heart, but he held his composure.

"Glad you enjoyed it." Llewyn reached over to nudge Mike's shoulder, startling him. "Next time, you should come to one of our shows."

A second passed, during which Mike realized he was supposed to say something. He forced a smile in Diane's direction. "Yeah. You need to hear Llewyn. He's a fantastic musician."

"Aw, cool it with the flattery, Mikey." Llewyn affectionately punched Mike's arm, and this time the smile on his face was reserved solely for him. The uncertainty plaguing Mike vanished in a flash. He had no need for jealousy, and he certainly didn't need to worry. As long as Llewyn chose him to sing with, him to come home to, him to share his thoughts and feelings, the magic of their partnership was something that not even a nice girl like Diane could touch

At first, Diane's entrance into Llewyn's life affected very little when it came to Mike and Llewyn's partnership. They often saw each other during the day, when Mike was working, leaving the night free to practice music with no interruptions. But eventually, Mike started coming home to an empty apartment. At first he optimistically deluded himself into believing that Llewyn had found a full-time job, but it quickly became clear that Diane was the culprit.

"Hey Mike," Llewyn announced over breakfast, on one of the rare mornings when he wasn't sleeping in. "You mind if I cut out early tonight? Diane wants me to help out with a project of hers."

Mike took a measured sip of his coffee, before replying in an even tone, "What kind of project?"

"Arts and crafts." An amused, yet respectful smirk lit Llewyn's face. "Anton's got this— you remember Anton, right? That artist we met back at the opening of Café Bizarre?" He didn't give Mike a chance to reply that he did, in fact, remember Anton. "Well, he's got a side gig selling paintings down in Washington Square, and I got him to take a look at Diane's work. I'm going over tonight to help her get some of her stuff ready."

"You haven't held a paintbrush in your life, Llew," Mike snorted. "What are you gonna do to help? Take up nude modeling?"

Llewyn shrugged. "She said she needed help, so I'm gonna help. Try not to wait up for me." He got up from the table and collected his dirty dishes, while Mike sat silently wishing that Llewyn didn't have plans that night, and hating himself for it.

The worst part was, Mike didn't hate Diane. He found that he liked her as much as Llewyn had hoped he would. Unlike Mike's cool-headed, sarcastic friends, the chinks in whose armor were only evident when onstage, Diane was the embodiment of a genuine soul. Her warmth completely absorbed all traces of cynicism. Whenever she came around to see Llewyn, she was friendly towards Mike– friendlier than she had any right to be. Though they hardly knew each other beyond the tidbits of information Llewyn shared with one about the other, Diane acted as if she'd known Mike for years. Her personality was diametrically opposed to the moodier, rowdier Llewyn, and yet Mike found himself begrudgingly admiring her.

Which made him all the more scared of losing Llewyn. As the years progressed, they'd settled into a routine existence that Mike had no desire to disrupt. His apartment, his meals, his social circle, an occasional stage… all were factors which he was accustomed to sharing with Llewyn. Even when his presence grew to be overwhelming, having him around was better than the alternative. But Mike had no idea how to hang onto Llewyn, without making his affection painfully obvious.

It took a few weeks for Diane to witness Timlin & Davis in action. It was their first booking at the Gaslight, and though Mike was uncharacteristically apprehensive, every misgiving melted away when he and Llewyn stepped onstage. _There is no medicine like live music, _Mike thought as he began the solo on "Dink's Song," closing his eyes and leaning into each note. _Even if you're the one making it._

Afterward, Llewyn was anxious to hear Diane's opinion, but Mike knew he didn't have to worry. He took a seat by the bar, trying not to watch Llewyn share a kiss with Diane out of the corner of his eye. A fleeting whim came to him to order alcohol, anything to drown out the pointless jealousy twisting in his gut. But Mike knew better than to drink, after what had happened last time.

"And you, Mike!" Diane suddenly declared, forcing Mike to swivel around in his seat. Diane beamed, her arms out, and behind her, Llewyn beamed as well. A picture-perfect, happy couple. "You're amazing! Llewyn told me you wrote those songs?"

"Not the songs," Mike was quick to correct. "The arrangements."

"You're so talented!" Diane gushed. "Both of you. It's such an honor to know people like you."

"Thank you," Mike murmured. He watched greedily as Llewyn and Diane shared a meaningful look, one that spoke volumes without a single word. The kind of look that Mike would never share with anyone. Out of nowhere, the blues rose so strongly inside him that he nearly got up and left the Gaslight. He knew he shouldn't pity himself, but… it didn't make _sense, _that Llewyn had found someone with whom he could share his happiness freely and publicly, and people like Mike were restricted to one-night-stands in the backs of smelly trucks, or public restrooms along the subway, or bedrooms at wild parties after drinking too much alcohol to think straight… Maybe it was what he deserved for such sinful desires, but in that moment, Mike wished more than anything that it didn't have to be that way. Or that he could be _normal, _at least.

Once again, Diane and Llewyn came to join Mike at the bar, and once again, Mike had nothing to say. He tried to stay engaged, so that Llewyn wouldn't notice his reticence, but his mind kept wandering. Fortunately, Llewyn seemed more interested in Diane than Mike. After a while, he got up to use the restroom, and Diane let out a quiet sigh.

"I hope you don't think I'm ignoring you, Mike. That Llewyn…" She gave a fond, rueful smile. "He can be a handful."

"You, ignoring me?" Mike chuckled, and was suddenly afraid of how instantly he'd switched back to good-naturedness. "Never." He didn't want Diane to notice his blues, because she was attentive and caring enough to ask what was wrong, but the ease at which he donned his mask was worrying. Especially when it was just that– a mask, unindicative of any true emotion.

"I think he's just trying to impress me," Diane said thoughtfully.

Mike raised his glass of water to his lips. "Sounds like he succeeded."

"Well, yes." Diane paused. "The music certainly would have won me over, if I needed to be won over at all. Sometimes I wish Llewyn would realize that. He doesn't have to try so hard. I like him very much, no matter what."

Unsure of how to respond to this insight, Mike shrugged and set his glass down. He turned around in his seat, mechanically scanning the next act onstage, and after a moment Diane followed suit.

"You know, in a way…" Diane glanced at Mike. "In a way, I find it easier to be around you. Not that I have a problem with Llewyn, of course! But… I don't know… He's so nervous sometimes. He can't be the Llewyn I know when we're out together." She folded her arms over her chest. "I like that you're able to be yourself, Mike. You don't fill the air with useless words. You just let things _be."_

Mike swallowed uncomfortably. _If you only knew why… _ At last he met Diane's eyes. She stared at him unflinchingly, as if stripping him down to size. Caught in her gaze, an unbearable feeling of nakedness overcame Mike.

"Diane… if you and Llewyn are, uh, having trouble…"

"No, no!" Diane exclaimed, waving her hand. "Please don't think that I mean to complain. Llewyn is very dear to me. I just thought you might be able to understand. You know, since you live with him and all."

_Oh, you have no idea, _Mike wanted to say. Instead, he nodded as the group onstage finished their last song. They raised their instruments and took a bow, and the Gaslight erupted.

When the applause died down, Diane murmured, "Mike… I've seen the way you look at us, you know."

At once Mike's mouth went dry, and his head whirled. _No. No, she couldn't have noticed ANYTHING, I was being so careful, no no no—_

"Yeah?" he said, his voice husky.

"Don't worry." Facing Mike, Diane laid her hand on his arm. "I hope I'm not overstepping any boundaries when I say this, but… it's perfectly natural to feel envious, and I don't hold it against you. You'll find a woman yourself someday, Mike. Someone who cares about you as much as I care about Llewyn. You can't give up hope."

A strange rush went through Mike. First came infinite relief that Diane had missed the mark. But following that, instead of the blues he expected, the scorch of irrational anger took over. Diane's words were well-intentioned, but she would _never _understand. The question wasn't whether a woman would ever care about Mike– it was whether he'd find one for whom he cared as deeply as he cared for Llewyn.

Before Mike had a chance to respond, a pair of hands flew around Diane's eyes, causing her to thrash and giggle. "Guess who," Llewyn murmured, his lips close to Diane's ear and his eyes bright with joy.

Mike barely held back his eye-roll. He turned back to the bar, a sense of loss descending on him as Llewyn and Diane picked up their conversation as if Llewyn had never left. As if they were the duo who'd just been onstage. As if they were the ones who'd been living together for years. Until Diane had entered the picture, Mike had thought that neither he nor Llewyn could thrive without the other, but now he realized they were not as inseparable as he'd imagined.

_You know what they say… Three's a crowd._


	11. Chapter 11

One Sunday morning, Mike awoke to a bleak scene, his apartment devoid of all but himself and his weary thoughts. Everything sounded too _loud, _from the crackle of eggs in the frying pan to the voices carrying down from the floor above. Mike attempted to absorb the sound by putting one of his favorite records on, but the lyrics were an unpleasant reminder of his current state.

_A little man walked up and down_

_ He found an eating place in town_

_ He read the menu through and through_

_ To see what fifteen cents could do_

_ One meatball!_

_ One meatball!_

_ He couldn't afford but one meatball…_

The egg Mike had cooked was the last in the carton. He'd need to buy more, and maybe add bread to the list… bread, and some lunch meat too, and God knew he couldn't live on that alone… _Dammit. Where's Llewyn? _They'd already spent their earnings from their show at the Gaslight, but surely Llewyn wasn't totally empty-handed, if he could afford to take Diane to all the places he bragged about.

The last thing Mike wanted to do was go searching for Llewyn, though. He highly doubted anyone would read more into his search than concern for a friend and roommate, but he didn't want to risk it. Besides, the more he thought about Llewyn, the more pissed he became. He didn't want to give Llewyn the satisfaction of knowing that Mike had been worried on his behalf.

Without work to distract him, there was no option but to spend the day practicing and trying to write, but Mike knew the instant he picked up his guitar that he wasn't going to get anything done. The chords he shaped felt bland and unsatisfying, without Llewyn's guitar to accent them, and without an audience to listen.

Briefly Mike wondered if he should find a hobby to occupy himself, before remembering that _this _was supposed to be his hobby. He shook his head as he put his guitar away. Maybe all he really needed was a coffee, to jump-start his mind. They were running low on that, too. _Christ._

The walk to the Caffe Reggio was just refreshing as Mike had anticipated. The air cleared his head, just like the caffeine he was hoping to soon consume. But as he stepped through the door, shock provided the greatest sense of clarity. For who should he see sitting alone at a table, but Llewyn himself? _Great. Guess I didn't need to search for him after all._

The desire for coffee took an immediate backseat. Mike walked over. "Llewyn?"

Llewyn's wide eyes blinked up at Mike. "Mike! Hey!" Though he'd been taken by surprised, he didn't seem opposed to Mike's presence. _That's gotta be a good sign._ Without being asked, he sat down across from Llewyn.

"What— what're you doing here?" Llewyn asked. A quick scan of the table revealed that he was empty-handed, although his guitar case rested at his side. Was he waiting for someone?

"I could ask you the same." Mike folded his arms across the table and smiled. "What're _you _doing out of bed this early?"

Llewyn snorted good-naturedly. "Diane and I went out last night… Spent the night at her place."

That didn't quite answer Mike's question, but it saved him from having to ask what he really wanted to know. He drummed his fingers on the table. "Yeah… I could've figured that."

"Oh man." Llewyn grimaced. "It's that obvious?"

"It's okay, Llewyn," Mike dryly assured him. "You've never been a master of discretion." _And you're with her all the time now anyway… _

"Yeah… I'm sorry, Mikey." Llewyn tapped the table lightly, as if he were answering Mike's impromptu drumbeat. "I know we always go out, and you're stuck working. It's just… she's really important to me, y'know, and… well…"

Mike had to conceal his surprise. The distance was bothering Llewyn too? He was torn between validation, now that he knew his partner was just as unhappy with their separation as he was, and shame that Llewyn now felt guilty on his behalf.

"Oh, it's okay," said Mike. "I'm just glad I ran into you. I wanted to ask, uh… we're running low on groceries, and—"

"Actually, Mike, there's something I, uh… wanted to talk to you about," Llewyn interrupted. Urgency glittered in his eyes.

Endless scenarios ran through Mike's head, all of them too fragmentary to form significant footholds. He forced himself not to check the Reggio's interior for anyone who might be listening.

"Yeah?"

"Diane and I… we're thinking of movin' in together." Llewyn's eyes flickered across Mike's face, his anxiety surfacing as he waited for a reaction.

For a moment Mike felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Then his lips unlocked, and he heard himself speak.

"Already?"

"Maybe it's a little fast." Llewyn aimlessly fidgeted. "But Mike, I think…" Slowly, he exhaled. "I think I'm in love with her."

"In love?" _In love. In love. _The words refused to resolve into a sensible definition.

"How… how do you know?" Mike breathed.

Llewyn gave a self-conscious half-shrug. "I just… God, she's the only woman I've ever… I can _talk _to her, Mike. Y'know? I've told her things that I could never… and I love being with her. She just… she makes me happy. Maybe it sounds kind of stupid, but… I want to make her happy in return."

Mike chuckled, but inside, he felt as if someone had laid bricks over his chest. _Must be nice. _A second too late, he realized he'd spoken aloud. Llewyn peered over at him with distant curiosity.

"You ever feel like that, Mikey?"

Mike swallowed hard. How in the world was he supposed to answer that, without letting on that he felt the exact same way about Llewyn? He shook his head.

"Oh, well," Llewyn said off-handedly, though he seemed disappointed. "You'll meet the right girl one day…"

"So you're moving out today?" Mike blurted.

It took Llewyn a moment to reply.

"…No… We, uh, haven't found a place yet. For both of us, I mean. But I figured I'd start by moving my stuff into her place… To get used to it, y'know?"

It seemed to Mike that Llewyn had had a whole month to "get used to it," considering how little he dropped by the apartment anymore. He refrained from sharing the thought. "Well… okay."

"Hey. It's not so bad." Llewyn reached across the table to smack Mike's shoulder. "Might be good to get out of each other's hair. I'll still come over to practice." Though his expression was veiled, Mike still spotted his urgency. It dawned on him that Llewyn was waiting for his approval. _Of course he can't come out and say it…_

Well, it was nice to know that Llewyn did, to a certain extent, still care.

"Of course." Mike flashed a smile. "I'm really happy for you, Llew."

It looked like it was time to get another job. He'd start looking in the morning.


	12. Chapter 12

For what had to have been the twentieth time, Mike glanced up at the large, round clock hanging on the wall before him. Over the course of the last fifteen minutes, he'd come to realize that the clock ran slow, but seeing the wrong time made his stomach knot more intensely. _Of course he's late. Of course he is._

From behind the desk over which the clock hung, Mel Novikoff let out a loud sigh, apparently drawing the same conclusion. "How much longer did he say he'd be?"

"I'm not sure," Mike replied, forcing his gaze from the clock to Mel's eyes. His back was starting to hurt from sitting up straight for so long, but he wasn't about to slouch at a professional meeting. "To be honest, he didn't say much of anything."

Mel's shrewd eyes narrowed, a disapproving look etching across his face. "Really? You let him get away with that?"

Mike clenched his hands in his lap, resisting the urge to fidget. "Well, we aren't really speaking—"

Incredulity replaced Mel's disapproval. "You aren't _speaking?"_

"It's not like that," Mike hastily blurted. "We just haven't seen each other in—"

"You haven't _seen each other?!"_ The incredulity deepened. "Chrissakes. I'm supposed to sign a duo who can't stand to be in the same room?"

"No." A flicker of annoyance kindled to life within Mike, but he tried his best to smother it. Even as sweat spread beneath his rarely-worn suit, he maintained a placid expression. "I told you, Mr. Novikoff, it's not like that. Llewyn and I still play together, we just… we don't spend much time together in private." He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. The last time he'd seen Llewyn, his partner had seemed more excited about his upcoming outing with Diane than the fact that Legacy Records had expressed interest in Timlin & Davis. That behavior was par for the course these days, but Mike had never imagined he'd skip out on such an important meeting. _Unless, of course, he forgot…_

Mel gave a small shake of the head, returning to disapproval in the blink of an eye. "Your partner better get his act together, or we'll have to sign you as a solo artist."

Sensing the joke, Mike gave no response. Finding work as a solo artist was an impossibility, not after he'd structured so much of his current repertoire, arrangements, and stage banter around Llewyn's presence. Without Llewyn working beside him, the promise of recording felt hollow and pointless. But as Mike tilted his gaze to focus on the dust motes hanging in the air above him, and the ceiling's ugly molding, he wondered if perhaps there was more truth to the offer than Mel let on.

When five more minutes had passed– more like ten, if Mike was going off Mel's watch instead of the wall clock– Mel leaned forward, his lips forming an apologetic shape. "Kid, I respect that you took time out of your day to meet me, but I've got another appointment soon. If your partner doesn't show up in the next minute…"

"I understand," Mike said, fluidly standing up. It felt so good to be out of the chair that for a second, he was able to ignore his concern for Llewyn's whereabouts. "Thank you, Mr. Novikoff. I'm real sorry about this."

Mel grunted blandly as he too stood up. "If you call tomorrow, I might be able to reschedule you for next week. But don't get your hopes up."

"All right." Mike reached out for a brief, impersonal handshake, before turning his back on the office and walking away.

By the time Mike stepped out the Legacy building's main doors and into the frigid street, his concern for Llewyn had crowded out every thought, despite a voice inside him that whispered that he shouldn't care. Llewyn never came by Mike's apartment anymore except for their regularly scheduled practice hours. Their conversations grew more and more fragmented, as both retreated into the illusion of having nothing to say to each other. From what Mike gathered, Llewyn was doing well for himself, and besides, he had enough to worry about on his own without adding Llewyn to the list. However, as Mike headed for the subway, he couldn't help racking his brain over what could have kept Llewyn away from the most important meeting of his life.

The onset of the blues did nothing to assuage Mike's mind. He'd felt it creeping up on him as the days grew shorter and colder, and his contact with Llewyn less frequent, but it hadn't completely hit him until now. With each step away from the building, the weight pressed harder on Mike's shoulders. The uncomfortable truth surfaced that he had nothing to look forward to for the rest of the night. Being alone felt more of a burden than a blessing.

Into the subway Mike traveled, missing the weight of his guitar in his hand. Today was the first time he hadn't taken it with him on a job search, believing that a role at Legacy surely lay in his future. _Look how well that turned out. _He hadn't felt much like busking, anyway. Or really like doing much of anything. His mind was utterly devoid of thought as he shuffled through the shuttle's doors.

The trip home was a familiar blur, insufficient at pulling Mike from his inner musings. His thoughts proceeded down a loop– where was Llewyn, what was he doing tonight, what was _Mike _supposed to do– before a burst of frustration turned his fretting to ash. Couldn't he stop _obsessing _about someone who didn't deserve it? Someone who had never obsessed over him? It had been months, and here he was acting like Llewyn had just moved out the day before. Still, no matter how pathetic Mike felt, the idea of an empty apartment awaiting him turned his stomach to stone. For a fleeting moment he debated asking Jean to come around, or inviting himself over to the Gorfeins, or heading to the Gaslight to see if anyone was playing, but while he longed for company, his heart wasn't in it. Jean was probably with Jim, and the Gorfeins entertaining one of their endless guests, and the Gaslight hadn't booked anyone interesting, and Llewyn of course was god knows where. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

Upon reaching his apartment complex, the sight of an envelope in Mike's mailbox briefly roused him, but once he realized it was junk mail, his interest took a nosedive. He unlocked his door and walked into the room of which he was growing increasingly sick. There was his record collection and turntable. There was the busted armchair, the scuffed-up coffee table. There was his guitar, lain aside after yesterday's street session. Everything untouched and in its place, as it had always been, as it always would be. A fleeting, yet burning desire came to trash the apartment. At least if he did so, he'd have _changed _something…

Mike was debating on whether he should bother with fixing something to eat, when the phone rang, like a gunshot from the floor below. A bolt of electricity shot through Mike. _Finally… _He had no idea who he hoped was calling as he raced for the phone, filled only with the aching sense that _something _was happening.

He picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Michael?"

Instantly Mike stiffened from head to toe. No one else in the world called him Michael.

Also, he recognized her voice.

"Mother?"

"Michael." Confidence settled into Mrs. Timlin's voice. "Where have you been hiding?"

A million questions flew through Mike's head, none of them with a positive explanation. _How did she find me? Why is she calling me? What does she know…_

"How did you get this number?" he asked, in a voice that was a little too breathless for his liking. Apparently it wasn't to his mother's liking, either, because her tone hardened as she spoke.

"Why does it matter? I have every right to give you a call." Mike pictured his mother pursing her lips in distaste. "You should be grateful to hear from me, after that disappearing act of yours."

"I—" Mike's head spun, and he staggered to the kitchen table to sit down. He couldn't believe that this was happening. After five years of successfully avoiding the sight and sound of his family, they had intruded upon the one place he thought he would be safe. If anyone he knew had passed this number along, Mike hoped they paid for it. Badly.

"Did you just call to complain about me, or…?" The absurd possibility occurred to Mike that maybe his mother was calling because she wanted to invite him home for Christmas. _All the times you made it clear that you didn't want me, and now…?_

Mrs. Timlin sighed, and Mike pictured her pinching the bridge of her nose. Her voice turned softer, conceding. "No, Michael. I don't mean to complain. I'm calling to let you know that I'm worried about you." Her tone was astonishingly convincing, and Mike resisted the urge to scoff. _Oh, yeah. I don't doubt it._

"A friend of your father's was in the city yesterday." Mrs. Timlin sounded so gentle that Mike almost wished he could come home, to lay his head on her breast like a child. "He said he saw you playing your guitar in the subway, begging for money like a common bum!"

Though it was useless to panic– the truth had to have come out eventually– Mike's blood ran cold. His words bumped into each other as he spoke at a frantic pace. "What are you talking about?"

"Please don't play dumb with me," Mrs. Timlin sighed, her voice soothing but hard-edged. "I'm not angry, Michael. I'm just trying to understand. Haven't you found yourself an office job?"

Pressing his hand to his forehead, Mike closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly. "Not many places take on someone who hasn't got a degree."

A sharp intake of breath came from the other end of the phone, Mrs. Timlin finally realized just how far her son had fallen. She still didn't sound angry when she spoke, though, which frustrated Mike to no end. "So you'd rather beg for money on street corners than put in a day of honest work? This isn't the future I dreamed for you. You and I may not see eye to eye, but surely it isn't the future that you dreamed for yourself, either."

The statement seemed designed to rouse Mike's blood pressure, but the context in which it was presented left him confused. He turned his mind backwards, reflecting on yesterday's cold afternoon spent howling out tune after tune to an uncaring audience. Most walked by with their noses turned up, and what change he'd collected had hardly been enough for a subway token, but he'd kept at it until his fingers froze, because it was all that kept the blues at bay. Sing loud enough, and the demons waiting to prey on his soul would be startled off. Sing for long enough, and it soon became all that mattered– not his next meal, not a record deal, not a broken heart, but a raucous melody to lift him up. And lift him up it had. Singing was survival, and yesterday, it had done its job. But today, not a single note had passed from Mike's lips, caught as he was in the grip of the blues.

"Well, what's it to you?" he said huskily. "Who cares if I'm _singing for my supper_ instead of slaving away in a cubicle for it?"

"_I_ care!" Mrs. Timlin declared at once. "You're wasting your talent, Michael. I gave you that voice of yours so you could devote yourself to singing in the Lord's name, not so you could—"

As soon as _the Lord _slipped from his mother's mouth, Mike felt a restraint inside him snap. He blurted, "You didn't give me a goddamn thing!"

_"Michael!" _Mike couldn't tell if the swearing or the accusation had shocked his mother more. "How can you be so ungrateful? I helped put you through college, and you repaid me by dropping out. If you'd bothered to keep in touch, I would have sent you money, but instead you resort to—"

"I don't want your money," Mike interjected wearily. "Not a single cent." Sitting at the cluttered kitchen table with the phone in his hand, the reasons he'd dropped out of school and ran from his family in the first place were flooding back. He remembered the immense pressure both parents had placed on him to behave as a model citizen and set an example for his siblings. And he remembered the verbal lashings he'd received if he failed to live up to their high standards, so forceful that he'd almost wished for a fist raised against him. Marks on his flesh would have at least been visible, an unspoken acknowledgement that he was justified in turning his back. Instead, while his father had berated and threatened him, his mother stood off to the side, shielding the rest of her children with the guise that everything was fine, and Mike's punishment was deserved. No one would understand if he tried to explain how words alone could hurt him.

The moment Mike had realized he no longer agreed with their faith, that he would never be accepted among them if they found out what he'd done with Sebastian, and that he was a legal adult who controlled his own life, he'd left Long Island for good. Not a day passed that he regretted doing so.

So why was he regretting it _now?_

"You don't need to take it," Mrs. Timlin insisted, still teetering between anger and politeness. "All I'm asking is that you show some respect to the one who gave you life."

There it was. It had never been about Mike personally. His mother only cared about him when she felt he ought to care about her. It was a show of dominance, clinging to a caretaker role that no longer fit. Mike almost wanted to pity her, but he knew her too well.

"I never asked for that," he whispered.

"You what?"

"I never _asked for my life_!"

A stunned silence hung over the phone line. Though Mike had won, he didn't feel victorious.

His voice was a broken mutter. "Please don't call here again." Before his mother could get a word in, Mike hung up.

If the conversation had taken place a couple years, or even a couple weeks prior, Mike might have shouted in anger. He might have called his mother names that would later keep him up at night. But now he just felt drained, and strangely enough, like he wanted to cry. He wasn't sure if it was for his mother or for himself, but with the blues tugging at him, he mostly felt the latter.

_God._ Though every part of Mike ached to collapse, he forced himself to rise, hang up the phone, and drag his feet along the floor, towards the only hope for his salvation. _I feel too much_. That was always the problem, feeling too much. His emotional nerve endings were rubbed raw. As he settled onto the couch, the words rang in his head– _How can you be so ungrateful?_– and he gritted his teeth. Try as he might to deny it… his mother had given him plenty. It was because of her that he'd first begun to sing, her songbook from which he had pulled his early repertoire … She'd encouraged him to play music in the first place. _And now she has the gall to say I'm wasting the talent SHE gave me?_

Dazed, Mike reached down and opened his guitar case. He pulled the instrument out and let his fingers slide across the strings, desperately craving relief. Anything to keep from dwelling on his mother's opinion of him, and the poor choices that he may or may not have made. A melody sprang to his lips without thinking. _This _wasn't a song that she had given him.

_"I'm going far away, far away from poor Jeanette. There's no one left to love me now, and you too may forget. But my heart, it will be with you, wherever you may go. Can you look me in the face and say the same, Jeano?"_

If he could just stop_ feeling, _somehow… Alcohol used to help him with that goal, back in college. Without it, he was cautious, all too aware of the inches between himself and Sebastian and the eyes around the room as their hands brushed while reaching for the same drink. Just standing among the throng of revelers brought on an intense feeling of guilt. _I shouldn't be here with him… everyone can see us… everyone will know what we've done… _The record blaring had added to his nervousness, as well as Sebastian's declaration that "Mikey here knows all of these songs by heart." But around his third or fourth drink, he was carefree and ready to enjoy both the party and Sebastian's presence. When Sebastian invited him into the bedroom, he hadn't felt a thing except bliss that this was finally happening, and all-consuming desire. He'd wanted him _so badly…_

By morning, he'd felt everything. His hangover, throbbing at the forefront of his mind and making the room spin. Embarrassment, once he realized he was all alone in bed. And then the pain.

Mike couldn't remember what had happened the night before, but his body told the story.

_ "When you wear the jacket red or the beautiful cockade, I fear you will forget all the promises you made. With your gun upon your shoulder, and your saber by your side, you'll be taking some fine lady and be making her your bride."_

If he'd let it alone, he might have been able to escape close to unscathed. But the need to know just what _exactly_ had unfolded at that party burned a hole through Mike, until he felt sure that everyone he passed in the street could smell the smoke. Always his foolish worries, getting him into trouble. Always the desire for more than he deserved, and his inability to recognize when he should stay away.

After two days, Mike finally spotted Sebastian one afternoon when he'd finished class for the day. He was lounging on the hood of his car, sunglasses shielding his eyes and T-shirt displaying his toned muscles. At the sight of him, Mike felt that the world had melted away. For the first time, he feared no interruptions, no possible consequences of walking over and taking Sebastian into his arms in front of everyone.

But the dream was dashed when the driver's door opened, and out slid a woman with Sebastian's leather jacket draped over her shoulders. She sauntered over and sat down on the hood beside Sebastian, oblivious to Mike's staring. His stomach churned as Sebastian lit a cigarette and put his arm around the woman. All he could think of was how he had once been in her place, but he and Sebastian had been _inside _the car.

_ "Oh, if I were Queen of France, or still better Pope of Rome, I'd have no fighting men abroad nor weeping maids at home. All the world shall be at home, and the right shall be the might. I'd have those that made the quarreling the only ones to f—"_ The song withered away as Mike choked on a growing lump in his throat. His fingers trembled on the strings, slipping from their careful positioning. Nothing was working. He couldn't even sing anymore.

Seeing the woman might not have broken Mike, in the end. He could have walked away and accepted the hard fact that he was no longer a part of Sebastian's life. But as far as Mike was concerned, Sebastian was still a part of his, so he tracked him down, once the woman had left and Sebastian went to cross the street.

He'd just set foot on the other side when Sebastian wheeled on him, fists clenched, and blurted in a strangled tone, "Stop following me, you fucking queer."

And somehow, not even _that _was the final nail in the coffin. Mike could have backed off. But the words slapped him in the face, leaving him sucking cold air through his empty lungs. Thoughts of Sebastian's lips roaming his face, of his hands shaking as he tentatively touched Sebastian's chest, of the crooked smile Sebastian had always shot his way when he saw him heading over, stirred a frenzy inside Mike. He snapped the words without thinking.

"Look who's talking—"

The last he saw of Sebastian were his wide, manic, beautiful blue eyes as he grabbed Mike by the collar and shoved him aside. No words were spoken– none that Mike could recall. He only felt the fingers clenching his collar, and the impact of his body against the brick wall, and the jolt that those eyes sent straight to his heart. Somewhere underneath the mad rage, he spotted a trace of sorrow, the only indicator that Sebastian was disappointed in himself. Maybe that was why, even after so long, Mike found that he didn't really hate Sebastian. He regretted ever having initiated contact with him, but that was his own fault.

That was the last time Mike saw Sebastian. Because he had felt too much. He'd pushed the boundaries of friendship to their limit. He'd coveted, and lusted, and lain beside Sebastian in utter desperation to be loved, and for those sins, he had paid up.

_Not everyone is like that. Not everyone is like that. _Over and over, the words spun through Mike's brain. He'd made friends who would never dream of taking advantage of him, who would stand by his side no matter what went down between them. Besides, he'd deserved it, for wanting what he should have never asked for. For choosing to trust himself over a society and family that warned him of the repercussions.

But rationalizations weren't cutting it. None of Mike's friends provided him with the special closeness he so desired– the love he'd once expected from Sebastian. And the one person for whom he'd fallen was completely ignorant of his feelings. In that moment, Mike had never felt so alone.

His hands fell from his guitar and curled into weak fists. God, he _hated _feeling this way. He hated feeling. He hated _feeling…_

Weakly, Mike glanced up at the apartment's side window. The person who'd lived in this room before him had found a way to stop feeling.

_There's no way. _Mike swallowed hard, his breath speeding up. _From the second floor? No way…_

His thoughts scattered with the sound of a key in the lock, then evaporated completely as the door flew open, revealing Llewyn. Bundled heavily in a scarf and winter coat, he stood hunched and pale-faced, but the instant he started talking, Mike guessed that it wasn't from the cold.

"Mike. Thank God." Llewyn walked through the door and shut it behind him, as if he hadn't just spent the last few months elsewhere, as if nothing had ever changed. A thousand questions popped into Mike's head, all of them variations on _what are you doing here, _but he couldn't voice them. His guitar slid from his hands to the floor, but neither he nor Llewyn flinched at the impact.

Once inside, Llewyn made no move to remove his winter clothing. He hugged himself tighter, staring up at the ceiling, before abruptly pacing the floor. His words came out haltingly. "Look, I know it's been a while, but, uh… I really need a place to stay. Maybe permanently."

_Permanently? _It took Mike a few tries, but eventually he found his voice. "What happened? Did Diane kick you out?"

"I—" Llewyn threw his hands up in the air and resumed pacing, releasing his breath in a short huff. Mike stared at him, knowing full well that he shouldn't care nearly as much as he did, but seeing Llewyn's agitation stirred a similar response within him.

"Were you evicted?" The only response Mike got was a shake of the head. His senseless concern increased. "Dammit, Llewyn, what's wr—"

"Diane's pregnant," Llewyn blurted. He stopped pacing and turned to look at Mike with wild eyes.

"She's pregnant, and— and it's mine." He said the words as if he couldn't believe them. "We're going to, uh… we have to get rid of it, but she doesn't have the money, and I don't have the money, but I don't think she could stand to look at me if I _did, _and her roommate's already pissed at me, and…"

"Her _roommate?" _God, after all this time… was Llewyn still living in Diane's college apartment?

Instead of speaking, Llewyn raised his hands and pressed his palms to his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes closed, as if willing the world to disappear.

"I don't know what to do, Mike." The terror and anguish in Llewyn's voice tugged at Mike's aching heart. "I just… I just don't know how I'm supposed to…"

As Mike stared at Llewyn, the thousand questions in his head turned into a million things he longed to let Llewyn know. He wanted to remind Llewyn that he'd missed a business meeting today. He wanted to tell him that he wasn't welcome back. He wanted to put his foot down and stop letting people walk over him just because they meant something to him. He wanted to inform Llewyn that if he'd arrived fifteen minutes later, he wouldn't have found Mike in the apartment, but lying bloody on the street below. He wanted to confess to Llewyn how deeply he loved him, how his love had convinced him even more that there was no God, because praying against him hadn't worked. The damage had been done.

He opened his mouth.

"What you should do is go talk to Jim." The calmness in Mike's voice seemed to pull Llewyn from his internal conflict. His dark eyes opened, and Mike went on. "I'd lend you the money, but I don't have any left that I haven't already shared with you. Jim's the only one of us who's got a steady gig. He'll help you. I know he will." He decided not to mention that Jim was also, besides himself, the only one in his circle of acquaintances whose kindness had no limits. The thought of taking advantage of said kindness the same way he himself had previously been taken advantage of made his stomach turn, and he winced to imagine the look on Jean's face once she heard the news. But as long as it brought Llewyn home, as long as it ended his affair with Diane and quietly destroyed the wedge that had been driven between them…

"Jim?" Llewyn's mouth worked as if he wanted to laugh, but didn't have it in him. "Why would Jim help me? He doesn't owe me anything."

"I'll talk to him," Mike announced. "We'll get this sorted out, okay? You don't have to worry. Diane will be fine." Surprisingly, he truly hoped she would be– and that Llewyn would be fine, too.

A small shiver passed through Llewyn, and he stepped forward towards Mike. The coffee table was all that separated them. "I…" He cleared his throat, and when he next spoke, the words were defeated, deflated. "I want to come home."

Mike only stared blankly. _Home? _To Llewyn, _home _could mean anything– the house where he'd grown up in Brooklyn, a ship packed to the brim with merchant marines, the apartment he'd shared with Mike, the room he'd shared with Diane. He couldn't move, not even to ask Llewyn what _home _was. Llewyn's eyes grew wide.

"I miss you, Mike." The intensity of his admission left no doubt as to his sincerity. They stared at one another, and though Mike loathed it, he felt the lump begin to rise in his throat again. _You goddamn asshole, Llewyn—_

"If you move back in," he said, concentrating with all his might on keeping his voice steady, "things need to be… different."

Llewyn blinked. Mike could practically see the impact of that _if _hitting him.

"Different?" he said.

Overcome, Mike nodded. He fought to keep his throat from closing, and his eyes from blurring with tears best left unshed. But he must not have done a good job, because in a single moment, he saw Llewyn's nervous energy drain away, leaving only profound concern. He moved awkwardly toward the couch, but didn't try to touch Mike. Mike couldn't decide if he felt grateful for that, or if it broke him further.

"Real different," he finally got out, his voice breaking slightly. He couldn't manage to burden Llewyn with explanations. Llewyn was _here _and that was what counted.

Abandoning his awkwardness, Llewyn bridged the miniscule gap between himself and the couch. He sat down beside Mike and put his arm around his shoulders, as if the action was completely natural, as if he hadn't even had to consider it. Though Mike knew he shouldn't, he leaned into the touch. Already he was beginning to feel more stable.

"You okay?" Llewyn murmured, sounding spooked. He had a reason to be, Mike figured. He couldn't recall ever being this vulnerable around Llewyn.

"Yeah," he said quietly, the lump dissolving in his throat. _Now I am. _


	13. Chapter 13

_1959_

Mike leaned over the notebook before him with his elbow resting on the kitchen table, his chin in one hand and a pencil in the other. His eyes mechanically scanned the words he'd written on the page, words that he hadn't dated. Had this song spilled forth a month ago, or a couple years before? Either way, it was a song that needed finishing, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out where he wanted to take it.

_I've got the blues in my throat_

_ And a mountain of troubles to face_

_ I'm paralyzed, barely afloat_

_ On the memories that time can't erase…_

Without a melody to guide it, the words alone were a stark poem. Mike tapped his pencil against the page, growing antsier every second. His effort in crafting the perfect second verse came to a halt when Llewyn, who was idly playing guitar on the couch on a few feet away, began to sing in a hushed voice.

_"Don't sing love songs, you'll wake my mother. She's sleeping here right by my side. In her right hand, a silver dagger. She says that I can't be your bride…"_

Mike sat spellbound, listening as Llewyn's warm voice filled the room. Oh, how he'd _missed _this. It was only a couple months since Llewyn had moved back in, after leaving Diane with some borrowed money and the address of a suitable doctor. For the first few weeks, he hadn't sung or even spoken around the house much at all. The darkness that hung over him the night he'd returned to Mike surrounded him like a shroud. But now that they had moved forward with Legacy, and eagerly begun work on their first record, the light was returning to Llewyn's eyes, and to Mike's heart. Nothing made him happier than to hear Llewyn sing on lazy evenings, when no responsibilities hung over their heads.

After the second verse, the urge to add a harmony grew irresistible. Quietly, Mike launched into the next line, his voice wavering a third apart from Llewyn's. _"My daddy is a handsome devil. He's got a chain five miles long." _Llewyn lifted his head, seemingly surprised to hear Mike join in, but he relaxed as he did so, settling into the rhythm. His voice grew stronger, more confidence, now that he knew Mike was supporting him. _"And on every link, a heart does dangle, of another maid he's loved and wronged."_

Mike made it through the entire song harmonizing with Llewyn. During most impromptu practice sessions, his hands often itched to hold a guitar, but now they sat immobile in his lap. It was more than enough to hear Llewyn sing and play. When the song ended, Llewyn gazed approvingly at Mike, his eyes softer than Mike had ever seen them.

"That's… That's nice." He ran his hands reflexively across the guitar's strings. "Maybe we should put that on the record."

"Maybe we should," Mike agreed, smiling. Reluctantly, he turned back to his notebook, frowning at the page. It was important not to leave this song hanging… but he couldn't seem to conjure up the emotions that had led him to write it in the first place.

As Mike had made Llewyn promise, things were different now that he was back. Different… and, to Mike's surprise, better, too. Part of it was undoubtedly the record deal that he and Llewyn had signed. Thanks to Mel Novikoff, the names of Timlin & Davis were soon to be recognized by anyone perusing their local record store– _well, as long as they're local to New York. _They'd only spent a couple of hours in the studio so far, but those hours filled Mike with as much joy as he'd ever experienced onstage. It had taken years of busting his ass at basket houses, but finally, his arrangements were taking shape on vinyl.

The other, greater part was Llewyn's mere presence under Mike's roof. Instead of lounging around all day while Mike was working, or going off at night to get drunk without informing Mike of his whereabouts, Llewyn now kept himself busy with a fair share of the household chores. If he went out at night, it was always with Mike by his side. The two were closer than ever before. Mike had to laugh when he thought about it. _Absence really does make the heart grow fonder._

Strangely, not even Mike's feelings for Llewyn bothered him at this point. He supposed he was so glad to have him back, that such things came as an afterthought. His heart sang when Llewyn called his name to get his attention, or when he put on a favorite record of Mike's to liven up the quiet evenings. And that was all right, Mike reflected. He could live with that. Thanks to Llewyn, his blues had completely fled. Some days Mike was sure that this was all a trap. He couldn't possibly feel _this _great every day and get away with it. But he tried not to worry, pushing his fear of the blues returning out of his mind. So far, so good. He was fine, and Llewyn was too.

The longer Mike stared at the lyrics he'd written nearly a lifetime ago, the more frustrated he became. He couldn't bring himself back to that low point, not even to finish the song. As he began to shut the notebook, he heard Llewyn start to pluck two alternating notes on the guitar. His voice came out in a teasing, playful manner.

"Skinnamarinky dinky dink, skinnamarinky do. I love you…"

Shutting the notebook, Mike turned to Llewyn, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Are you talking to me?"

Llewyn tossed his head back in a way that could have been a nod or a shake. He kept on playing, even as he stared at Mike. "C'mon, Mikey. Your name's not Skinnamarink."

Mike felt a chuckle burst forth from him. The laughter started deep in his chest and rose in pitch as it escaped his mouth. Llewyn broke into a grin of his own, and the sight went straight to Mike's heart. In that moment, he knew that everything would be okay. This wasn't the happy ending he had envisioned for himself years ago, nor was it the ending he had hoped for. But it was the happiest ending he couldn't have expected. He loved Llewyn, and whether Llewyn loved him or not, at least he hadn't stayed away.


End file.
